The frog

When I first saw her at the bus stop in the drizzle, I thought she was an old woman. She wore a coat in some undefinable senior's color like grey-brown-dark-purple, a modern version of the invisibility cloak, a coat that tried to blend into the surroundings, that seemed to whisper "Don't look at me, I am not here". Her pants were both too large and too short, as if some overweightz cousin had given them to her in an act of ill-meaning kindness. Standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, at 8.15 on a Tuesday morning, she blocked peoples's way. People on their way to work, clinging to laptops and umbrellas, purses, and plastic cups of decaf chai latte. People with a proper job, proper income, people who derived their self confidence from being proper members of society. She didn't seem to care. As I then realized, she was a young woman, about 22 years old, with the irresistibly open smile of a person with Down syndrom. And she was not alone. On her shoulder sat a green plush frog, 12 inches tall, who sported a friendly grin and a bow tie. The two were emgaged in a vivid discussion. Among all the people rushing by they were an island of peace, sincerity and absolute sanity. Here we had the only person who was not hiding anything, who was publicly displaying her longing for friendship and sympathy. I looked around. Suddenly the people in the streets didn't seem to be so much different from the girl. Weren't they all clinging to their imaginary friends in order not to feel alone on a gray morning? Weren't they all silently talking to someone in their heads, trying to organize the day, trying to keep deadlines, trying not to be late? In this moment I wished more people would dare to show their inner 12 inch green plush frog. It would make finding real friends much easier.