They Are. But who are they? (Part 1)

I see her almost every morning. 

Our paths crossing at the exact spot they did yesterday and all the days gone by. Nonchalant in her posture, breezy in her gestures, intense as she turns her head slightly to give but a glimpse of her semi-chiseled features.

Were we to come face to face I wouldn't recognize her. Were she to walk away from me, perhaps, I would. She always has her back towards me as I pass by. 

Sometimes, as she looks up to talk to a passerby she offers a half smile . At least all I can see is just half of it. I wonder if she'd look at me if I were to walk by? Would I stop long enough for her to glance at me? 

Something compels me to look her way every single time. The rare mornings that she isn't in sight, that something compels me to look back again and again. Hoping she might have appeared by then. She never does.

Why doesn't that Something compel me to stop going on my way and go seek her out? I wouldn't know where to seek!

She sits there on the footpath. Her back turned to the busy road that dips down the bridge to the signal. She sits facing the wall, more interested in the clicking heels than the blaring horns behind her. 

She never appears to seek alms. Then what is that she does there every morning? What does she say to the one's she turns her face to as they pass by and stop for a moment before her? Would she talk if it were me listening?   

Perhaps someday she might get off the footpath or I get on it. We might talk.  

Till then... I see her almost every morning wearing her trademark off-shoulder blouses. She doesn't need the left sleeve for protecting her arm. The protruding bone got covered with skin a long time back. 

Someday, perhaps, I shall stop and walk up to her and ask her. 

Until then... I hope to see her again in the morning. Sitting there with her back to me. And envy her a little now and then. 

You see, for all the  missing arms, off-shoulder blouses, alms-not-sought, sitting on footpaths, She never has a bad-hair day.