Viewing an Extraordinary Scene

Across crowded New York City streets I observe a woman and a man, with whom her fingers are interlocked. They walk into the blinding lights of the city; her neck stretched so she can see the very tops of the skyscrapers towering above her. She beholds the dazzling screens of blinding colors and vibrant images projected on the high-rising buildings. Walking through the crowded streets, passing countless unfamiliar faces, she is not lost. Through the dullness of the black and grey coats of her passersby’s, her vibrant pink one stands apart, though her companion’s fades into the dull shades of black and white.

Taxis pass them in blurs of chrome yellow with streaks of magenta as the drivers hit their brakes. The water sprays up from the wheels, only barely missing the pedestrians walking alongside the road. The sheer numbers of taxis and cars halt traffic to a standstill at near every junction of near every avenue. From where I stand, cars are beginning to backlog at the red traffic lights, reflecting long beams of bright red over the water, in drops on the cars and in puddles on the road. Rain continues to bounce on the lit numbers and advertisements atop the yellow cabs. She looks unfazed by her surroundings as she casts her vision to the sky and the light, falling, rain.

Above her, the reflective glass panels of the towering buildings depict the twilight sky turning into a clouded sunset, with the mirror images of the glimmering screens of New York City, broadcasting advertisements and trailers, too. From her line of vision, I imagine she can see the reflection of the sun behind a building of the skyline and an advertisement for women’s designer clothing. She seems entranced in her view, despite the city life surrounding her. Hundreds of people are around her, yet she is lost in the night sky and the architecture. She seems content with the cool rain hitting her face as she takes in her surroundings. A romantic scene if she and her companion are so inclined.

The rain forms puddles on the road and sidewalks, the water reflecting the primary colors of the taxis and their brakes. The woman casts a pink and gold reflection, though her companion remains unidentified. The identity of her companion is shielded by the sea of strangers, her hand outstretched to him without his face being visible to me. He is not distinct as she is. Her coat being blown in the light city wind revealing a black dress trimmed and belted by spaghetti thin strands of delicate white lace encircling her body like a snake would entrap its victims. The hem reaching mid-calf, accented by the sheen of her gold stilettos.

One such as I, a mere observer, can only speculate as to her destination. As the sun only yet sets, I imagine she is on her way to a party or an event. She could be going out to dinner. Maybe she is foreign royalty, walking among the average citizens of New York to arrive at a glamorous soirée. She could be a benefactor of a charity organization I have never heard of, heading to an auction with the proceeds going to a worthy cause. She could be a designer, which would not be hard to believe while she wears such a stunning dress, headed to a fashion show. Walking the streets in her beautiful dress covered in a vibrant colored coat, standing out in the masses with a pop of color, she could be anyone. To me, though, it does not matter, she is unique, the foal point of my city view.

I see a woman, with hair falling down her back to her waist in loose, perfect curls, blowing with her coat. Her hair, the color of white sand dampened by warm waves, contrasting with her pink coat, only just shorter than the lace hem of her dress. Covering her hair is a knit beanie. She looks like she just walked out of a magazine and should be in a limo not walking the streets, she looks so out of place in such a mundane setting. 

As the heel of her gold shoes makes contact with the standing water of the sidewalk a small ripple originates and spreads to the edge of the puddle. The metallic reflection is near identical to the shade of her blonde hair. Only separated by skin tone beige and the pink of her coat. From my position all I can see are colors arranged in such a way that she looks to be parting the seas of black coats and umbrellas as she walks without one.

She stands at the edge of the sidewalk striding towards the most prestigious hotels with her hand held into a crowd of people to where her companion remains. Her companion could be her best friend. He could be a lover. A boyfriend. A husband. They may be on a date. She could be anyone in any situation. Seeing people such as this mysterious woman of glamor leaves so much to the imagination. It leaves questions unanswered. Who is she? Where is she going? Who is her companion? And why does she stand out so much in a city full of people?

Maybe she stands out because she is not hidden behind a low hat or high-collared coat. She has no hood covering her golden hair, no umbrella to prevent the golden ends from turning a deep brunette from the rain. Only hear coat and beanie protect her from the rain and the cold of New York City. 

Where the gloomy twilight sky of a rainy afternoon meets the very top of the skyscrapers the reflections create an ethereal glow. It is no longer difficult to see why the woman in the pink coat is transfixed. From where I stand I see the sky consuming the city on this rainy night when the woman and her companion have a place to be.

But to me, the scene is not complete, there is something missing. The colorful scene though is not reality, but a mere representation of life its self, open to interpretation by each individual onlooker, such as the nameless faces in the painting observing the woman in the pink coat. But then again, one’s own painting is never truly finished. It is framed on the purest white wall of the gallery. I see progress, but never completion; I see improvements that can be made. But once it is framed, it is complete in the eyes of the observers.

The girl in the pink coat was on her way to see this painting. I am the girl in the coat, and my companion my best friend. Not hidden at all, but appreciative of the art rather than his own profile in a sea of average people, mounted on the wall. The painting is as complete as it ever will be, but I will continue to improve until my final piece.