Washington Square Park at night

Sunday night, I went to Washington Square Park. There was a band playing there and people around. Listening. The night was not warm. But not cold either. The band was good. No briefcase opened in the front. These guys were playing for the hell of it. Music for music's sake. People would come, turn into musicians and go. A singer. A saxophonist.

And across from me, there was this girl. She was alone, having a good time. Beautiful girls, often they look distant. Acting. No matter how beautiful they might look, it taints their beauty. This girl, you could see she was alive. And that made her beautiful. Maybe she was not beautiful according to contemporary canons. But she was not wearing flip-flops, which immediately put her No. 1 far ahead of any professional-model-food-disorder-skinny bitch any time.

I can still see her smile. And the way she would let her dark hair cover her eye(s). An old rastaman showed up. When she left, he walked her to the subway. Or home. Or wherever dreams live.