The Art of People Watching | Teen Ink

The Art of People Watching

February 26, 2012
By Gypsyrose7 BRONZE, Binghamton, New York
Gypsyrose7 BRONZE, Binghamton, New York
2 articles 0 photos 12 comments

Andy has already left for work by the time I wake up. I stretch and move from my spot on the bed and wander into the kitchen. I find the same unappetizing food in my dish left from last night. The place is a mess. An empty pizza box was left on the coffee table, the milk carton still on the counter. A heap of dirty laundry sits in the hallway outside the bathroom.
I take to my usual spot on the window sill by the couch. I am the King of Manhattan as I sit down to observe my citizens.

Just in time for the morning rush, I check for the usual; the old man in the window across the street who sits and drinks coffee, the hotel worker who steps outside to take his cigarette break at eight o’clock sharp every morning. The yellow taxis and fancy cars move in a steady rhythm with the stop lights that flash colors festive for the holiday season.
A little girl bundled in her red coat skips ahead of her mother excited for school. As an angry teenager kicks along the pavement with his headphones shoved in his ears. The fat man selling hot dogs at the corner waits on a business man who skipped breakfast.
Everything is as it should be, at least in the human frame of mind. People are always rushing from place to place. No matter the weather too. Time after time I see lover’s dodging raindrops and street artists working through wind storms. When it snows I sit warm and cozy inside Andy’s apartment as if stuck inside a snow globe while busy New Yorkers rush around with Macy’s bags.
They move oblivious to one another. Sometimes I wonder if they view each other as fellow human beings or if they are just objects to be avoided on their commute to work.
Although I find their fast pace strange it amuses me. Each one of them is uniquely different but painfully the same. They are all actors in the play viewed from my window. Each act is similar but never entirely the same.
I stretch and yawn, pressing up against the glass. I’ll wait for Andy to come home, hopefully with better food for me to eat. Until then, I’ll close my eyes and fall asleep to the sound of the hum I call home.

The author's comments:
This is from the point of view of a cat.

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