I watched as she twirled her hair around her fingers, absent in thought, staring. I observed her intently as if to craft her story. This woman I am yet to get to know. Then without hint, her eyes would sparkle and her face shape into a beaming smile.

It mesmerized me, staring at her, I was desperate to know her thoughts. The shopkeeper referred to her as crazy Nancy, always off in her own world, sometimes oblivious of herself. Like clockwork she would arrive at the station, as if waiting for someone to arrive, while she just sat there, staring in to space, yet present in the world around her.

I wanted to write her story, but did not quite know how to approach her.

“Excuse me, may I sit next to you” said I in my most kind voice, hoping to not alarm her to this unusual request as she sat on the curb. She ignored me, yet her body said otherwise as she moved over ever so slightly, as I sat down next to her.

I continued to read my book, as she twirled her hair. Watching the movements of the birds, listening to the hooting of the taxies, turning her head to the various conversations happening around her. Most people were dismissive of her presence, but not me. I was drawn to her, like an enigma, I wanted to know her story.

Without hint, she stood up, crossed the road and carried on with her day. I watched her pleasantly greeting a shopkeeper, before crossing the busy street. Then I saw her wave to a passing vehicle before she headed into a busy shop. A few minutes later she emerged with a shopping bag in hand.

Crazy Nancy. I wondered why the shopkeeper had referred to her in this manner as I walked on over to him, to ask him this very question.

His response astounded me, “Well, I don’t quite know her, but what I see is a bit strange. Every day she comes on down to the busy transport interchange, she sits down for a few minutes and, and then nothing. She just sits there as if she is on the beach, having the time of her life. And then she gets up and goes back to carrying on with her day”

The only reason I know of this strange enigmatic woman is because I saw her on a couple of occasions, and for some reason I am drawn to her and I know that there is one hell of an interesting story there. But I don’t think that it is a story that I am capable of writing, it is as if my writing will do her story an injustice, and perhaps, I need to just continue to embrace the fact that she now scoots over for me and allows me to share her sacred space.