The Payphone

I haven't seen her in weeks.

Every day on Lexington Avenue, a block from my office, she'd sit on one of those padded walker-chairs beside a pay phone. I always tried not to stare. She had a short halo of blonde curls in the back, while the hair across her forehead lay perfectly flat, as if pressed there by hand.

Sometimes she'd look up and smile. I always smiled back.

It crossed my mind more than once to take her picture, but if she caught me, I'd feel as though I'd violated some unspoken agreement between us.

She became one of those familiar strangers New York specializes in producing. A daily touchstone. Part of the scenery and yet somehow more important than the scenery.

Every day she sat beside that phone, patient and hopeful.

I found myself wondering who she was waiting for. I imagined an estranged daughter. A brother. An old friend. Somebody whose voice mattered enough to keep bringing her back.

In all the months I passed her, I never once saw the receiver in her hand.

Now she's gone. The chair is gone. The pay phone remains.

And every time I walk by, I find myself hoping the call finally came. That she answered it, smiled that beautiful smile, and wheeled herself home, her waiting finally over.