By Sonya Rehman
During an internship in the city, I remember walking home late one night after dinner with a friend. The dismal restaurant we ate at was a few blocks from my dorm. Being a weekday, I remember spotting a woman who worked at the media house I was interning at. She was a producer and had a few awards that she’d won up on a shelf in her VVIP office.
I remember thinking what a strong ball-buster of a woman she was; she wore a white leather jacket, slim-fit black pants and her short blonde hair was perfectly blow-dried, cupping her defined jaw-line.
Her aura was a tad intimidating and she seemed like the kind of woman who was functioning on another plane altogether – one of incredible stress and deadlines. She also seemed like the kind of woman who had earned her place in the world, all on her own. So there was a bit of anger beneath the surface. She had mettle and a pronounced masculine, no-nonsense vibe.
But when I saw her walking down the upper west side, with her arm locked into a man’s arm, I couldn’t stop staring at her face. Her expression was gentle and soft. She had a spring in her step as she walked with the unknown man. He paled in comparison to her; shorter, balding, slim, simply dressed. She had her head thrown back, laughing, her face glowing. Their body language was in sync, romantic. They passed me by, like teenagers, blinded to the world.
I walked past, digging my hands into my coat pockets to stay insulated. It was horribly cold as I carried the image of her warm, happy face all the way back to my room. I couldn’t stop wondering if I had mistaken her for someone else.
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