4

A man, standing beside me on a bus stop checking his watch.

He looks nervous, and he is probably late from work or school, he checks his watch again.

People around me are talking different languages instead of the blank old Finnish. 

I can hear Spanish, german and French. 

The man is probably from France, judging by his clothing and eyes.

There is a different shine in the eyes of Frenchmen, happy little glint. 

Even though the glint in his eyes is shadowed by his wrinkled eyebrows.

Two young men, both from France, on the other side of the glass wall on the roofed bus stop;

They are wearing berets, and the other one of them is holding a French Loaf.

Playful smiles lingering on their faces, they are playing with the irony, that's how Finns see them - or at least used to see.

I smile to their backs and and one of them, the one with a red beret,  notices me and wrinkles his eyebrows. 

#3

A teacher, standing in front of the class, holding her hands on her hips as the light from the beamer turns her face pale mirrowing only a one word from the computer, the word itself is not a big nor important. Only the irony of the little moment is. There are five big bold letters on her hairline forming a word BLANK

#2

There was a young girl, 14 or so, sitting by a coffee table at a coffee shop.

Three candy wrappers in front of her, crumbled by the table, not in a particular order or pattern.

Just laying there, in front of her.

She had a blank stare and she didn't really look at anything, just looked.

Her hands were hanging by her sides and she looked a lot like a broken doll, left alone there.

There were a group of guys on few tables away from her, and her eyes lingered to them few times, but no wonder.

They were really loud, laughing their asses off making jokes about girls and whistling to those who looked good. I got sick of them after only a minute.

I was sitting by a coffee table, my mother beside me, holding a cup of tea in my hands.

We sat there in a comfortable silence for a while, songs of the musical we just watched playing on non-stop repeat on our heads.

I let my eyes lie on the girl, I made deductions about her that I have already forgotten.

A man in a thick jumper walked past her, pushing a baby carriage that had a white balloon strapped on it.

He was talking softly to the baby, and the girls eyes lied upon the horrible horrible jumper of his and I bet she must have laughed in her head.

Next time I let my eyes to that direction she was not there, but the three candy wrappers were. Neatly in line on the table.

# 1

Nine year old ballerinas, running around me with the anticipation of the next lesson, nearly running me over.

Some of them holding their new iPhones protectively, against their little bodies covered with close-fitting fabric of their ballet that suits that come in a variety of different colors.

Their nearly naked bodies showing a little too much skin, though they are not old enough to care, their hair in ponytails or buns smiling to their fathers, those men waiting in the lobby.

Their fathers smiling back, or asking whats wrong. Few mothers back there too, but talking about their daughters with some kind of competition in their voices.

One of the fathers reading a book trying to close the giggling of the girls out of his little world.

And few older students like me, trying to find a way to the dressing rooms to get away from here.

Looking lost, and knowing that the little girls are better than we are and some of them will be professionals. And also knowing, that some of them will drop the hobby before even getting to the point where they decide.

And some of them are soon wanting to be even skinnier than they are now, causing themselves eating disorders.

Some of them are going to brake bones, or hurt them selfs so bad that they can't dance anymore and they will get bitter over their friends; the ones that are professionals.