The elderly woman was carrying a tennis racquet.

Why on earth, would a stooped over, senior, who appeared to be on the brink of total confusion have a tennis racquet in hand, Everene wondered to herself.

She mused that perhaps the elderly woman was, in fact, a tennis fiend, who only showed her true agility once on the court. She imagined her stooped back zigzagging carried by fiercely agile legs, making solid stroke after solid stroke.

By the time her daydream ended, Everene realized the woman had long since passed, leaving her to stare at her own reflection in the shop window across the street.

An organist played on the walk. She envied him for his freedom, just as much as she envied the girls walking past with hot pink laces and strawberry milkshakes to match.

A tourist passed by with an old fashioned camera. He looked even more lost than the ancient tennis champion, taking photos of objects simply to warn off pitying onlookers, who couldn't help but notice his abject loneliness.

Everene recognized that look well. She had been a tourist herself in places that failed to excite her imagination. After all, a brick is a brick, a building a building, a street, no matter how lovely, a street. Not a particularly cheerful girl, she preferred these days to sit and observe the world pass by, rather than trying to pass it by.

An observer has no duty to be cheerful, to smile or engage or entertain. An observer might just sip her coffee and quietly form opinions, at no cost of time, effort or funds. Most importantly, observers are rarely observed. Granted, they may be noticed, as a ray of sunlight falling through the leaves is noticed, but observers are rarely watched with the same intensity they give their subjects. That's what Everene liked most her hobby, it's freedom.

She could hide in plain sight, leaving others momentarily curious, but never giving them any insight, any answers. Her silence and stillness left them bored, and they moved on, leaving her to continue her statuesque duties. 

Speaking of, she had been squinting, occasionally, at the other unmoving object in her eye line, a statue of two wolves. One appeared to be lunging over the other with her directly in his sight. Perched precariously on a tower of stone, the two seemed suspended in mid air, as though taken from a frozen arctic and perfectly preserved.

She watched, and they watched, amidst the city's attempts to disguise itself with bits of nature, as an aging woman attempts to disguise her cracks and wear with cosmetics, a touch of blush to evoke youth, a dash of greenery to cover up years of grime.