Her face, framed between yellowing red-checkered curtains, between ruffles and flashing beer signs.

The soft planes of her face, in dissonance with the surroundings.

I stop.

Stare in appreciation, as if I were at a museum exhibit and had just been arrested by a work of art that both startles and attracts.

I want to say our eyes meet then. They do not.

But I wait in the shade of a ragged-leafed street tree, till her face leaves the window and reappears in the doorway, exits the small Italian café.

Now her back. I follow the brown T-shirt, a dim horizontal line indicating a bra.

She is heading to the Farmer’s Market.

I have no plan. I just want to watch her touch the deformed heirloom tomatoes, peel back the fresh corn husks.

Her nails are painted black.

She leaves the trampled park, heads down Main Street.

She carries a brown paper bag with the lacy limp leaves of beets hanging over the lip.

They swing with her seductive pace.

Her shirt has ridden up a bit in the back and reveals a vulnerable swath of untatted skin.

I wonder how many women cook and eat fresh beets. Eat any kind of beets, for that matter.

She is glancing back at me, taking keys from her purse.

Every woman’s sign that she is eager to get into the safety of her car, fast.

It’s an old dusty-rusty Honda, three white crosses painted on the rear window.

I have no plan.

Bio: Tara L. Masih