Some idea I've been contemplating writing for awhile. Thought I might give it a shot. POVs will be rotating between two characters: Hans and Mia. This prologue is through Hans' POV. And it's very short.
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Hans
I can see her. She stands with her arms crossed, waiting for the vendor to serve her. Her furrowed brows and downturned lips hint that she’s pressed for time, but the vendor – a tanned, black-haired Middle-Eastern man – doesn’t pick up on the cue. He takes his time, slowly mixing condiments over a hot dog. With an almost lethargic movement, he passes it to her and she takes it with a scowl. Then she’s off marching again, disrupting the pigeons that loiter in the paved paths. She takes a large bite of the hot dog and the way her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ only shows that it’s too hot; she’s most likely already burnt the roof of her mouth.
She stops nearby to spit out the bite of hot dog into the garbage bin. And the whole time I’m only hoping she’ll come over to me, sit with me, talk to me. I don’t know where this sudden yearning has come from, but it’s there and I’m not about to deny it. She’s stunning in her impatience and seemingly average style. Her knitted tam is askew, the pins holding it slipping. Down her left hand drips the brownish mixture of ketchup, mustard and relish but she doesn’t seem to notice as she adjusts her large bag dangling from the other arm. Jerking her attention away now from her purse, she does notice the dripping much and less-than-gracefully licks it up along her arm. Once arranged and recovered from her run to the rubbish, she walks in a haltingly down the path. This time fewer pigeons scatter; she isn’t so exuberant this time ‘round.
When she stops before me, the heat rises to my cheeks (or the sun has a dry sense of humour). She doesn’t move, but I see the way her eyes twitch, darting over to look at me. She quickly glances around her, and, approving the lack of humans, she sidles toward me. She eyes me suspiciously and, in assurance, I blink the slightest bit. I can see the wave of shock that washes over her, but as soon as it comes, it is gone. A hesitant smile of askance instead replaces wide eyes and straight lips and she climbs onto the stone where I sit. She peers over my shoulder and begins to read a story of her life so far.
And that is the day a historic statue fell for a twenty-first century wild Manhattan girl.
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