From a young age, I always observed the girls, the women on buses and trolleys. I would fix my eyes on them and absorb their image, their smiles, the nervous movements of their hands, the pleats dancing on their skirts. There were so many, so beautiful, so colorful, that I felt sorry for their men, sitting silent and abstracted above them, hanging on to the handrails, buried under the gray and blue of their suits. But I quickly left them.
I would solve their mystery later. I would return to them. They would talk. They always sat in pairs and talked. And I remained silent.
I would approach, stand next to them, and strain my ear to their murmurs, as if I knew that someday I would attempt to speak on behalf of... So here are your stories, Katerina, Christina, Eirini.
I grew up and kept the promise I never gave you. I wrote them.