Her hair was wild like a sail on the wind. And she seemed to always have a laugh even when she wasn't. I rubbed my sneakers together, imagining my life as her friend. She'd talk me into a drunken bike tour of the city. I'd notice suddenly the trashy ges that just hadn't been outside the car window. She'd put spray paint in my hands with a smile. Mid-defacing, I'd find to my surprise I was quite good. I would be her silent lackey. Mysterious. With a hard leather jacket and hands in my pockets to say, "Don't fuck with us." She'd get too trashed and sleep on the couch. I'd play some soft jazz to ease us into the next day's hangover. She'd confess her trials casually over midday coffee. I'd know it was coming. Afterall, she's beautiful, so she must be tragic. I wouldn't say anything. She wouldn't need me to.
"Ma'am." The barista's eyebrows pointed at each other as he begrudgingly addressed me again.
"Oh. Right... uhh, nevermind." I shuffled away oddly. I carried myself out the door and right up to her face, where my low mumbling voice couldn't be ignored. "Hey." She smiled.
Created: Jul 20, 2012polkadotbot Image Media