The Queen of the Bench

Her posture is so perfect that I half expect to find a finishing school textbook balanced on top of her head.

It's only when you get closer that you notice the headdress.It rises above her in a regal tower, nearly as tall as Marge Simpson's hair, though the cream-colored fabric has long since surrendered to the soot of the subway.

Every evening when I step off the 4 train at Wall Street, she's there. Same bench. Same crossed legs. Same collection of overstuffed bags at her feet.

The slippers catch my eye every time. Her toes peek out from leather that has clearly traveled farther than I have.

And she's always writing. Not scribbling. Writing. Furiously.

Her pen sweeps across the page in grand theatrical gestures, as though she was signing a peace treaty

At first I assumed it was a journal. Then one evening I glanced down. Numbers. Page after page of numbers. Columns of them. Rows of them. Written in a looping, uncertain hand.

None of them appeared to add up to anything. Now, every night, I find myself inventing explanations. Maybe she's balancing a checkbook attached to an account that no longer exists. Maybe she's recording lottery numbers. Maybe she's solving a problem only she understands.

Or maybe the numbers aren't the point at all.

She clearly needs money, but there's no Styrofoam cup. No cardboard sign. No carefully crafted story designed to loosen a few dollars from commuters hurrying home.

Just the woman.Her headdress.The bags. The pages. And the numbers.

Sometimes she looks up and our eyes meet. The stare isn't hostile. It isn't friendly either. It's the look of someone focused on something far away. Then she returns to her work.

Every night she writes. Every night I walk past. And every night I wonder if she's getting closer to whatever answer she's been searching for. Then I climb the stairs to street level and continue looking for mine.