As a young child on buses and trolleys, I always observed the girls and women. I fixated my eyes on them and absorbed their image, their smiles, the nervous movements of their hands, the pleats that danced on their skirts.
There were so many of them, so beautiful, so colorful, that I felt sorry for their men as they sat silently and absent-mindedly above them, hanging from the handrails, buried under the gray and blue of their suits. But I quickly left them behind. I would solve their riddle later. I returned to them.
They talked. They always sat in pairs and chatted. I, on the other hand, remained silent. I would get closer, stand beside them, and listen stealthily, as if I knew that one day I would attempt to speak on their behalf . . .
So here are your stories, Katerina, Christina, Irini. I grew up and kept the promise I never made to you. I wrote them down.
