The stories I weave

I make up stories for people I see on the metro. I don't know why I do it, but something in me feels the need to create lives for these people, explaining away their appearance or actions. This morning I got on the train with blonde girl and indie professional guy. Together, they are each forced to snag seats by eachother but not side by side. A few minutes into the ride I hear blonde girl exclaim and evidently realize she knew the curly brown-haired girl next to her. While I can't hear the conversation, I love that their body language tells its own story. Curly brown hair proceeds to talk more to indie professional guy, occasionally giving a glance to blonde girl. As the train barrels on Curly brown hair is full-on flirting with indie professional guy. Meanwhile, blonde girl begins to visibly withdraw. The smile slips from face and eyes. Her lips flatten into two thin lines as she attempts to hide her irritation. As I witness this interaction, my mind is inside the blonde girls head, imagining the form her anger takes inside her own mind. In my story, indie professional guy is tired of blonde girl and her unwillingness to create a life of her own outside of him. Curly brown girl is like the complicated Carrie, unwittingly proving that blondes don't always have more fun.

I wonder if people make up stories about me. I think I'd rather not know.