Cryptic Calisthenics

Every morning during the mid-morning coffee rush I watch from behind the espresso machine as the elderly Asian woman glides out laps of University Square.

Wiry hair pinned beneath translucent green visor saluting the sky, tan foundation all thickened and cracked - past serious students and prosaic professors she hustles, tongue-pink jumpsuit whistling like sneakers sliding through piles of dry leaves, arms and wrists tossed and flicked lazily up and out in some vague gesture of a cryptic calisthenics obscure in origin.

Around she goes. And around again. Every morning.

Each time she passes she turns her head to the cafe. We make eye contact, me from behind my coffee machine, her from beneath her visor. We study one another.

She always matches my gaze, eyes as bright as sunrise. Over the heads of scholars thronging, frowning, nodding, pondering. I grin. And she grins back.

This is how I come to suspect we have both lost touch with reality. Clearly, we are happy.