Again, once more infront of me. The woman whose plainness was so astounding that it surpassed any definition.
It is odd, to me, that something can both perfectly define a word and so equally perfectly show the opposite of it.
She is plain. Plain in face, body, and I can only imagine soul. She says so little, looks at so few things, it is next to impossible to divine what she must be thinking. Plain in thought I surmise.
A song plays in the background, faintly, as it is on low volume. She has no reaction at all to it.
I see her face stare effortlessly at the middle distance. I am consumed with concern that she may be truly, wholly and truly, a more full person with her plainness than I can ever be with my errant ups and down.
Plain, as it were, to be plain, is to be nondescript. But in that way that she is, the exceedingly non-descript nature she has is so specific, that it baffles the ability to categorize.
Let me try and put it another way. She is so plain that she is no longer plain.
How is that possible?
And there she goes again. Leaving the lobby and boarding a vehicle to the airport. I never expected to see her again, which I did. Maybe I will again. And maybe, just maybe, by then I might be able to discern what it is that makes her so inexplicable to me.