Legs

I picked the expensive, claustrophobic, London flat because there was something about the window. It was a basement flat with a small slit that looked up onto a busy street. Rearranging the furniture, I positioned the bed so every morning, when I awoke, I could watch the legs making their ways to work. This made me feel settled about the choices I had made in my life. I figured it was a good way to start my day.    Amongst the regular throng there was one special set of legs I always looked out for. It was only natural I had a favourite. Maybe I knew too much about her.    Legs reveal many things once you have studied them long enough; nonchalant on-time, nervous after sickies, joyful and tanned on the first day back after a holiday, hurried and annoyed when late, relax when early. Whatever her mood there was something captivating in her motion that kept me waiting for her every morning. Then a body and face joined the legs. I had been out for a paper earlier than normal. On my return she was there in front of me – an averagely-attractive woman, complete with top-half. But the rest of her moved like those legs – confidently. Her face. Her shoulders. Her arms. Her clothes. Even her hair. Everything.    I stopped in front of her, blocking the way. She looked at me, confused.    I told her she had nice legs. She smiled, took the compliment off me, put it in her purse and walked away, in that selfsame way she had been doing for months.    I went down to the flat, got back into bed and spread my paper. She still walks past. She bought a new pair of shoes last week. I haven't bumped into her since. I like to lay in bed and watch the world go by.    As I said, it sets me up for the day.

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