Upon a vital and calming revisit to Old Frank after failing to find a mate to chill with, I decided to walk amid Michigan Avenue to visualize the lyrics into scenery within rooms of the hotels, with some windows being half-closed, completely in secrecy from the outside, wide open for the sunshine to peek through, and other various styles of curtain adjustment. I then transferred over to State Street, where I ditched Frank and found a playlist of Nat King Cole to keep me company until I got through the Blue Line turnstile on Washington.
What occurred next was an absurd mixture of drama and romance. When a woman with short hair, thick glasses, and an admirable winter coat was walking approximately three to four feet to my left behind me, she was approached by a shelter-less man with upfront requests, possibly for money - it was difficult to decipher since Cole was still playing. However, after a few short seconds, I heard her exclaim, "I don't need you fucking harassing me!" which followed a transpire action of turning around and spilling her rage toward him, like a guard dog barking intensely at a nearby pedestrian.
I turned around and witnessed only her back to me as she verbally fought with the supposed harasser.
I stood before the blue line with her presence lurking behind me, for I sensed her eyes were fixed on me for a bit.
Four minutes later, the train had arrived. We went into different train cars, concluding our ghost acquaintance and away from the lonely beast of unknown intentions.
I named her Jane, an associated name I overheard from a group of LGBT enthusiasts at the Gay Parade, where one woman, named Jane, told a man to "Back off, you fuck!" after he apparently grasped her ass.
March 3rd, 2016
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