Curious

You meet all kinds of people when you are out in the city on a weeknight. When I was on the Silver Line this evening, I stood next to a woman who was young and quite petite, wearing a lavender coat. When she reached up to hold the bar, her sleeve slipped down and I caught a glimpse of her watch. It was a large silver men's watch-- but on her delicate wrist it looked positively huge. I was instantly sucked into morbid curiosity about why she would be wearing a timepiece that was so obviously wrong for her body type. It couldn't have been a gift, and I didn't think she would have chosen it for herself. I decided it was from a man, but who, and why? Just as my curiosity began to wane, I noticed a new twist: the second hand wasn't moving--the watch was stopped at 5:03. Ooh, now I could barely contain myself... a young, slim woman wearing a huge men's watch that was wasn't working. Why? My mind reeled at the possibilities. A stolen timepiece from a man who'd broken her heart at that exact moment? A brother who'd been shipped off to Iraq? A father or grandfather who had passed away, but was not nearly forgotten? A friend lost in the World Trade Center? Just as I was considering the possibility of gently inquiring about the watch, she rang the bell and slipped through the back doors into the night. It took me about a half hour to stop thinking about this woman and her watch. But by then, I had become curious about why I was so damn curious...