On a ferry, I watched a woman in her late twenties share a story with her friend. On the other side of a pane of glass, I could only see her conversation.
Her hands cupped the air; they squeezed into hard, tight fists; ten fingers spread wide, raised together, then rested for a beat on her knee before one--arcing and turning palm up--rose towards her friend who stood and gazed down on her. Her knuckles were red with cold, and her desperate-for-understanding eyes layed a background music to her story that came to rest with a tilt of her head.
The vendor, a male in his thirties, locked eyes with me after selling Karla a hat and gloves for twenty-five euro. The guilt was behind his eyes; he worked hard to look expressionless, which lonely allowed the guilt of gouging an American tourist seep out like melting gelato.
A moppy-headed man stood while the plane was landing. We were only a few hundred feet from touching down and he beat the rush by pulling his bag from the overhead compartment several rows ahead of him. He hustled back to his seat and winked at his friends in front of us.