Yesterday at the cafe there was a woman standing behind me who was just stunning, her hair wrapped in a gold fabric, two sparkling pink jewels affixed to her precisely drawn face, great lips, great eyes, a wonderfully animated energy.
Nearby stood a child, about four years old, wearing gold spandex pants and a pale pink tutu. The child could not stop staring at the woman, and she finally noticed and said, “What’s your name?” The child looked at her unblinkingly and still did not say anything, though he was smiling. Then an older woman next to him spoke instead.
“This is Edwin,” she said proudly.
“Edwin, I like your tutu,” said the woman.
The older woman said, “He’s really into them right now, he’s got a bunch of them.”
The child continued to be so delighted by this gorgeous woman’s appearance, he smiled and circled her. “Edwin, high five!” said the woman and they smacked their hands together.
After they left I said, “You’ve got a big fan there.” And the woman said, “No, I’m a big fan of HIM.”
And I felt as if I was witnessing the forming of a memory. Not my own, but all of theirs.