Her walk was the first thing I noticed. The manner in which she held herself. She pushed off her right leg a bit more than her left, perhaps a habit formed from an old ankle injury. The second thing I noticed was the single strand of hair, separated from the rest of the head, hanging on ever so slightly to the glue of her lip gloss: the third thing I noticed. It hardly had any tint, as if to say, “I am perfect as I am, but not perfect enough—I need to shine.” 

The fourth thing I noticed was the corner of her cardigan, as it became untucked from the waist of her pants. It revealed the fifth thing I noticed, which was a stain, hardly visible, and yet I could see it. A light-blue, pillow shaped stain. And it made me wonder what could have left such a color stain, in such a small spot. It could not have been a different piece of cloth, for then the whole shirt would have been light-blue. It could not have been a blueberry, for they are not blue inside at all. And it could not have been blood, for then it would have been red.

My mind wandered no further, as I noticed the sixth thing, which was the tongue of her shoe. Her shoe, that came up past her ankle, with black laces running over each other to the top, where they wrestled into an imperfect bow, one loop larger than the other. The tongue of her shoe was off-center, just the slightest bit, so that I was able to see the first stitch of the top of her sock. She wore a dark, navy-colored sock, one that did not match her black shoes, as if to say, “I would rather wear a sock that almost fits in than one that does not at all, even though, in the end, neither would be the color I want.”

The seventh thing I noticed was the car. I recall it being a gray, worn down van, paint chipping off the back right door and a scrape starting at the beginning of the front door and barely making it across to the second. I listened to it, wondering why it was so noisy. I watched as it blew past her, perhaps making her hair move as the wind lifted it up. I wondered if her lip gloss would have kept hold of that one strand of hair, or if it was forced to let go. I would not know, for an umbrella was now covering her head, somehow taken out and opened while my vision was blocked by the van. This was the eighth thing I noticed.

I did not notice a tenth thing, for I was unable to, as the ninth thing I noticed was her opening a large door, the bell jingle hardly filling my ears, for the city noise had already reserved its space. Though I suppose, the tenth thing would have been the road in front of me, empty with people who are everyone but her.