• Perhaps, if you went into Central Park, you would see her, if only for a fleeting moment. If you’re lucky. No one really sees her; she dances along the borderline of what can and cannot be perceived by the average person. Most people just pass her by; they have better things to do than to Look. Others stop for a second, glance about them as if there is something that should be noticed, yet they don’t know what, and then go on their way. Others still – the smallest percentage of them all – see her quite plainly and stop to watch her for a while. These others really Look at the world. They are artists and the homeless and actors and writers and poets and singers. They’re the ones who are called “crazy” much too often.

    She may or may not be pretty; it depends upon who you ask. Beneath the filth and layers of clothing and matted hair, the young woman is terrifying. That can be agreed on. She is a feral cat, wild and clever, with sharp features and an even sharper smile. If you asked someone who has seen her what colour her eyes are, you wouldn’t get a straight answer. “Maybe black,” the person would say at length, shuddering at the sudden realization, “or white.”

    The girl is a beggar. She has no home, no family, no money, no qualms, and no second thoughts. She lives in the Park – perhaps amongst the trees or beneath a bridge –, where she watches. She observes passerby: families and couples and people who may or may not have questionable motives. At night, she sees the lights of the City, but cannot see the lights of the sky. She thinks of these visible lights as man-made stars unworthy of praise; they’re just in mockery of the night sky and are far less glorious.

    During the day, she preys upon tourists and locals alike, pick-pocketing indiscreetly. She’s never been caught; after all, very few can see her. She doesn’t need to steal from those who Look. The girl can coax the money from them well enough. She dances for them. Her motions are fluid and quick and light and vaguely wild. She will then stop, smile convincingly, and ask for money. No one refuses her.

    If it is late enough, she will ask you to dance with her. She’ll lead you down paths you never knew existed, into secluded fields. Beneath the moon and the starless sky, she’ll dance with you in dizzying circles, barefoot and carefree. You won’t care that your feet are bleeding or that you have to get home by a certain time or that your cat needs to be fed. The beggar girl will laugh, and though you won’t know why, you will, too. Maybe, something inside of you is telling you that, from then on, you’ll have no more cares. Maybe you’ll laugh because you’re terrified. You’re terrified of what she is and what she’s done to you, but you won’t exactly know either one of those things. Not completely. And maybe you’ll laugh for both reasons or for no particular reason at all.

    Either way, you’ll be Gone.