Origami

I watched a girl about my age take a piece of patterned red paper out of her bag. It was the same size as a gum wrapper, but much denser. She began folding it, in half one way, then another, flipping and turning it in a entrancing rhythm of fold, crease, fold, crease. She knew the pattern well, so much that her field of attention picked up my staring.

"What are you making?" I asked, caught.
"A crane. If you make a thousand, you get a wish."
"Oh yeah, I think I've heard of that! How many do you have?"
"I think four hundred now."
"Have you been going a while?"
"About five months," she said, as she shaped the beak of the paper creature. "Do you want this one?"

Obviously I did. I thanked her profusely and examined it before tucking it in the pocket of my raincoat. It's beautiful, with the paper's bold colors intertwining along its creases, which are impeccable despite the nonchalance of the maker. I wondered about her 1000-crane wish as she walked up the stairs, her head tilted slightly to the left.