Faces of Strangers

FACES OF STRANGERS

A crowd gathered, waiting for the restaurant to open. Seated among the Asian throng, no one spoke a language I understood. Relieved of the normal eavesdropping occupation, I could fade into the background where comfort is guaranteed. 

When paid, performing center stage is not difficult for me. But I prefer blending in, unnoticed, blending into the background, observing without contributing, to choruses of chitter-chatter and nothingness.

I like to look at the faces of strangers. I like to pick out who is married to whom; mirror neurons clearly molding spousal selection into identifiable couples. Their faces shapes resemble each other as if born brother and sister.

It’s fun, obvious (to me, at least), and reveals more than lives lived.

Carved facial features let me in on private joys or painful episodes shared by two people I’ll never know. Reading expressions, watching reactions, traversing well-worn lines on heightened foreheads and layers of neck-folds, lets me know secrets not well hidden, as with any chartered map of any remote hiding place.

It’s true we mirror each other, especially whom we love and live with. How that works is a mystery. We are born unique, but blend beautifully by copying curved lips, squinted eyes, twitching noses. Even sounds are echoed: laughter sounds similar, hushed tones match, accents blend, obscuring regional differences to a distant past.

Of course the kids look like the parents. That’s genius genetics. Thus, two complete strangers meet, marry, multiply, and presto! Faces of strangers are familiar and familial.

Most curious of all is the effect we all have on each other. We copy friends, we adopt habits, we emulate those we admire, and mirror exactly those we love.

I think I used to speak differently. I know I’ve acted a million different ways, depending on where in the world I was, or what in the world I was doing.

I can’t help but wonder if anyone has ever “mirrored” me? That would lead me to wonder why they would want to.

We morph because we are all insecure about something or another.

Sitting there in that crowd watching every detail from posture to lost composure at having to wait to be seated, I listened to babble in foreign tongue and guardedly assumed what was no doubt debatable.

I like to look at the faces of strangers. I like to suppose their stories are any more fantastic than my own.

I’ll never know.

Just Another Lori Story