When she goes on her walks Mylea doesn’t want to see anyone she knows because she hates having to do the fake greeting. Mylea dresses with nonchalance, but unfortunately she’s still a slave to social nuance. She hates that about herself. If she sees someone she knows while on these midnight walks, she feels inclined to smile, wave, and pretend like nothing is wrong. But if she was authentic, she would keep her head down, maintain a grim face, blow smoke recklessly, not say hello. Mylea has these thoughts, but never acts. Whoever it was that walked past, would they potentially be offended by her not stopping to say hello? Would they then spread gossip about how they saw her, how she rudely ignored them? How she smokes cigarettes?? How could she?? Mylea knows that is what people would do. They would murmur. They would side-eye. They would subtweet. And Mylea just doesn’t have time for that. So she stops, to be fake. To smile. Mylea doesn’t see it yet, but she is a paradox.
U Street is always popping. The music blasts from clubs, the drunk people slur boisterously, the neon lights alert you of the $4.99 jumbo slice pizza (cheese only; it’s another dollar for pep). The scenery distracts her as she walks. She had just passed Ben’s Chili Bowl when she looks up and observes a group of people a little further up the block. It appears as if they are all gathered around a performance. Mylea likes to stop for street art – musicians, dancers, painters, murals, any kind. She loves that these people are out here, really doing it – really putting their art on display for strangers. She admires that bravery, so in turn she likes to show her support, because she knows her own heart would probably break if no one stopped to give attention to her passion.
Mylea was close now. She hears music, percussion beats. She was about to stop when she sees him.
22 and Counting 