Something in the way she moves.

I am not a patient person. There appears to be a restlessness in me that can never be quelled. When I lived in Houston, I’d drive an extra twenty-five minutes—taking a detour that took me wildly out of my path—just so that I could avoid traffic. In New York, I zigzag all over the sidewalk without hesitation, out of a need to keep moving.

I’d be king of the sharks if that were my lot in life. I could outrun any alligator.

While I do get sidewalk rage—every once in a while I find myself behind a slow herd of people and can feel my fingers inadvertently curling up into my palms, the nails digging in sharply—I admittedly get an interesting pleasure out of participating in this game of urban dodge ball. It’s like performing an odd kind of street dance. I like to test how gracefully and swiftly I can make it from one destination to another, how much fluidity I can sustain. Of course, my ballet is usually interrupted quite abruptly, but there is still immense satisfaction to be gained from making it down just one street in absolute perpetual motion. It makes the travel, even with the constant frustration of human blockades, worthwhile.

That’s a lie. I’m usually seethe-breathing by the time I reach my terminus, and fantasizing about Red-Sea-Parting the bejeezus out of people.

H&M top; Zara faux leather pants and flats; Vintage beads.