Crow's nest

I can't help but wonder what people are up to in their worlds and their lives. The windows I can see but can't see into. I wonder who's pulling the strings out of string beans in preparation for dinner. I wonder who's choosing a new color of fabric for their curtains. I wonder if there are families with pipe-smoking, newspaper-rustling fathers sitting in the one big arm chair with one leg slung over the arm of the chair the way that men do but girls are discouraged to. It was always a great luxury to sit like my father when I was a little girl. It made me feel important and big and grown-up. And my dad was so handsome and sturdy and cozy. It was always fun to sit in his chair the way he sat in it.

I make up little stories in my head about the people I see. I do it without even thinking about it. I look over at a person in a car driving next to me and I create a destination for them and a little bit of backstory and maybe even a musical score. What grand adventures they are having. Even the mundane trials and tribs are colorful and worthy of retelling. I dress them in my mind. I fashion out a manner of speech. I decide what sort of shampoo they use. I know the names of their parents. And they are usually Frank and Sylvia.

But who am I kidding. Everyone is always on their way to Starbuck's.