It Starts Early

Today in the staffed elevator at the 190th St. subway stop the operator was playing 1970s pop music.  Near me a little girl with jet black hair cut in a page boy tugged on her father's hand.  She wore a bright orange ski parka that set to dancing when she heard the music.  With a squeal of joy she noticed a similar being:  a little boy just her age near the front of the elevator.  She let go her father's hand and took three bouncy steps toward the boy.  But either too many people barred the way, or the boy did not reciprocate, because the girl returned quickly to the safety of her father's hand, still trying to catch the boy's attention. The boy held his mother's hand and stared blankly at the steel door in front of him.

When the elevator doors opened, the boy and his mother exited first.  The little girl rushed out with her father and took a few quick steps toward the boy.  Now seemingly preoccupied with the stairs up to Ft. Washington, he took no notice.  The father delayed a few steps, holding the little girl back to ward off further disappointment. 

After a tasteful delay, they continued up the stairs.  I turned for one last look.  The little girl had resumed her jouncy step and was smiling, ready for the next adventure.  I thought, it would be nice if big girls still had fathers to gently warn us away from futile endeavors.  Barring that, I'll settle for a bright orange ski parka.