Synchronicity &/or Deja Vecu

I get to work around three o'clock every day. At that time, walking from the West Houston 1 to the corner of Greenwich and Clarkston, I usually pass, somewhere around Clarkston and Varick, a tall, pretty woman, can't be more than thirty years old, with very dark blond or very light brown hair cut in an upside-down flower-bell shape, close to the scalp at first, then flipping up and out, like a drooping fan of petals accidentally looking into the water.

I will probably never speak to this woman, nor necessarily should I, but I wonder, does she see me, and does she sometimes bemoan the absence of the time needed to meet strangers on the street. If we met, what would we talk about? We have exactly a block and a half in common, and, though the curiousities of that block are many (inordinately large number of brown or russet pigeons, shirtless man with huge boxer's cheeks who cleans sidewalks and yells at me about the sexual prowess of Puerto Ricans, children trying to learn handball and failing, etc.), I'll wager they are not curious enough to cement a relationship.

Thus we pass each other, circling and circling and drooping our stares into our feet, who, unappreciated huskies, keep mushing on, from the subway to the sidewalk, where the brown pigeon lands too close to the cheeky man's broom and makes a noise like a little vacuum powering down. Even the pigeons, I think, do not have time to say hello.