It's not polite to stare

I'm a people watcher. It's a favorite activity of mine, and I've touched on this a couple (or more) times, most recently about my love of eating alone at restaurants.

I people watch because I am a storytellers. I find those I see, pick one out, and make up his story. It is irrelevant how true my made up story is, and it usually bares no resemblance to the subject's actual life story. In fact, the falsified is usually more exciting than the genuine.

So when I see someone that catches my eye, I fill in his story. I see someone dressed nicely in a late-night subway filled with people in jeans, I make up her story. I see a man looking solemnly at a letter, I make up what the letter says. I see a woman on the verge of tears, I empathize with her pain through making up the story of where her pain comes from. I see someone with crutches, a cane, a cast, or any other such injury-revealing accessories, and I make up the story of how it happened -- of course starting with what his particular ailment is.

Today was one of the last examples that threw me off.

I saw a man in the train with a cane and two boots as if he had torn ligaments in his ankle or a stress fracture or a broken toe.

While making up his story -- how it happened, where he was coming from, where he was going with his wife, why she was obviously the care-taker and knew not where they were and he had to give instruction -- I started surveying his belongings and his being to see what clues I could fill in to complete the picture I had of him.

My picture was shattered when I realized he had no toes on his right foot.

I don't know why this bothered me so much and put me aback; most things I see, I just manage to avoid and move on and keep writing the narrative I had already started. Yet this, I couldn't stop looking down at his foot. I had to keep telling myself "don't stare...don't stare...don't stare..." and yet I kept on gazing.

For the first time in my life, I could not think about narrative. I was stuck on the object and not the person.

I didn't think about how much I'd miss my toes, or how much I need to find my toenail clipper, or even how hard it must be to find a pair of shoes that fits right, I just kept gazing at his foot, trying to hide the fact that I was mesmerized and disgusted all at the same time.

I have phantom pains for this man's toes. And no story to go along with it.