Memorable

We have a coffee house we frequent. We drink bottomless cups of coffee and the wireless is almost always working. The last few tims we've been there, we've run into the same patron. What's unusual is that I barely remember seeing strangers in public places unless they've done something memorable, like, be rude, say something rude, you know. Polite people, unfortunately, are easily forgotten, unless they are servers in restaurants. Any way.

She sat next to me in another chair for hours, I presumed, listening intently on a blue tooth device to the tirades of someone on the other end who needed to bend an ear.
The woman looked distraught at times, smiled at other times, and even spoke to her client in gentle comforting tones. On one occasion, she sounded like she was scolding the person on the other end.
What makes this particular woman unforgettable, isn't her calm Mona Lisa smile, or even her long curly raven hair. It isn't even that she doesn't shave her legs, she doesn't, and even though that is something slightly memorable. Even strangely admirable because it's so anti-conformist.

I listened to Revelation Song, Mazzy Star's Fade Into You for the third dozenth time. I found several other songs to listen to so I wasn't eaves dropping on private counseling sessions. Truth be told, I did listen. I put the headphones on never enabling them, and listened as best I could anyway, without looking at her, so she never knew I could barely make out her whispering voice, softer than a mother to her new born.

Gordo looked at me kind of strange when he would be on the other side of her. But I thought he was just being funny.
After I saw her the last time, I thought her a kind soul to listen to the breaking hearts of others on her own time. I wondered why the people on the other end never complained about the loud coffee house grinding of beans the squealing of steamed milk, or even the blender whining to crush ice.
She steepled her fingers and listened as if searching the grainy wood floor for answers, at at times, she even appeared to be praying. At other times, her brows furrowed and she seemed to be bleeding for the person she listened to, she looked as close to someone on the verge of tears as anyone I'd ever seen. She often shook her head or raised her eyebrows knowingly.

I thought her to be infinitely patient. I wondered where she worked the rest of the time and how she billed for such odd office calls.
One night, I noticed she had three different drinks all at different levels of abandon. Clearly she'd been at this for hours. I wondered who the troubled soul was on the other end of that phone.

Then I discovered, there was no phone. She didn't have a blue tooth on either ear. No phone in her folded hands.

But I asked her name the next time I saw her and introduced myself. I wonder what it is about people in their own little world that gets to me. They don't all freely engage with the exterior one as Lindey does when I ask to plug in next to her chair, or if I can take the seat next to her.
She is always pleasant and sincere.
And memorable.