Encountered

A few weeks ago, one of my colleagues had her purse stolen from her desk at work, when the receptionist was out to lunch. It was later found, sans cash, in the stairwell.

This afternoon, a whole group of us gathered around someone's computer to watch the CCTV footage from the building foyer from the day the purse was taken.

We didn't see the thief, but oh the squeals of joy and self-consciousness when we saw ourselves on screen.

I read recently that life is the art of encounters. It was this maxim that I was thinking about this afternoon.

My encounters with the world: strangers on a crowded train into Melbourne, seeing an ex-boyfriend, asking the barista behind the machine for a coffee, handing over some money, the change placed gently on my palm.

And my encounters with encountering: standing among my co-workers watching myself on a monitor in the building's empty foyer - doing a private little dance as I waited for the elevator to arrive.

Them watching me. Them watching me. Them watching them. Me watching them. Me watching me.

In private, in public, the fleeting now lasting - my moment to moment is framed.