It’s 11:00 a.m., an atypically hot day in Tbilisi. Like all urban capitals, life here does not begin till after 10. I seek refuge in a café with brutally powerful AC. Fifteen minutes later, my body is still radiating the kind of heat that could power a plant.

I sit on a stool facing a huge glass window, full view of the lively street. A colorful canvas of people flows by; on foot, on bikes, on scooters, with dogs, in sneakers, in heels. Until my eyes fixate on this one woman. My fingers halt, and I watch her like someone watching a river flow to Vivaldi’s “Spring.”

A woman invisible to the world. I study her face. Late sixties? Natural. Nothing stitched, stretched, or nipped. Beautiful. The way she moves, you’d say she’s in her late forties. Like a ballerina with a bucket and garden shears. Shoulder-length hair, heavily silver-streaked into ashen blonde. Simple white t-shirt. Comfortable – and I’d bet pricey – well-fitted jeans. Moss-green apron. Neat flat leather sandals. Lime green garden gloves. Serious, yet her eyes hold a softness, almost a smile. She runs the corner bistro, preparing to open soon, she moves about the patio watering, pruning, cleaning tables, arranging chairs.

I look around at the open-air theatre the modern world has become. She doesn’t belong. Olive inhabits her body and space like someone who has found her frequency. I can almost see a halo around her. She is so absorbed in what she’s doing, the simple act of living. An hour passes. She doesn’t slow down, not for a second does she turn around to check the world storming past her. She wears no headphones, yet I can feel an internal music running through her ears.

At noon Olive disappears inside. I picture her behind the espresso machine, discussing the intricacies of adding capers to their smoked salmon toast. And I think of how deliciously dead tired she will be after a day’s work, kicking her legs up with her cat, a glass of deep ruby Usakhelauri in hand. I know that woman is happy. She occupies her space with ease, melts into her life like butter on hot toast.

Then I spot Samantha – let’s call her that – strutting toward the. Hips swaying, lips pouting, one hand flirting with perfect hair. Flawless features. Tiny white-hot shorts, long tanned legs, generous cleavage, high-heeled golden sandals catching light, magazine-worthy makeup.

She positions herself at the pavement’s edge, elongating her legs, perking her butt, lifting her breasts. Impossible to miss, like neon in a power outage.

Yet…

Nothing. Not one head turns, not one driver’s neck snaps. I seem to be the only one watching. I see her shift, elongating her pose further, spreading one leg to the side, touching her hips. Her eyes dart like a compass that has lost its magnet. Invisible. Worse, I watch a young delivery guy openly check out what looks like someone’s mom right next to her.

My mind follows Samantha briefly. A relentless chase of nothing

Then I turn to Olive. Her natural, simple being begs a question: is her effortless presence a reaction to the noise, to becoming invisible to a world that only sees the young and the loud? Or is it a hard-won peace that comes after knowing what is enough to make you truly happy?