#the vicarious life

The sewing machines were idle. Everyone else had left for the day. She sat, looking down, maybe searching wedding dresses or texting with a friend via WhatsApp. Or just waiting for the end of her shift. Had I still been a journalist, I might have gone in and asked her what she was thinking. I might have sat with her until she closed up and went home to Queens. I might have met her family, eaten their food and patted their dog. I might have tried to sleep on the floor and wondered whether the money—the life—was worth the sacrifice of country and culture and how I could find out what she was dreaming. I might have gone back to work with her the next day and lived with her until she was sick of me and my black T-shirts, if a little flattered that someone found her fascinating. But I no longer live the vicarious life. So I walked on, in my own shoes, with my own dreams. #thevicariouslife