I couldn’t be sure, but I felt like I’d spend the rest of my life with her. Rounded bottom, eyes bruised by lack of sleep. She thought in a linear but beautiful way. She saw consequences and never alluded to mysterious objects, places or feelings of the past—things I could interpret ambiguously. I enjoyed her enthusiasm for life. Her willingness to speak her mind, belong to my heart.
I had never seen someone eat a cigarette butt before. Much less on a Sunday, in a park, surrounded by nothing except bottle caps and nameless bugs. “Why am I eating this again?” She asked.
I don’t know why we are talking about jazz. Neither of us particularly like it, and I’m not even sure you could name three jazz records. Not that I could, but from the way you’re talking it’s as if you worked in a record store in the backstreets of New Orleans in the 1960s.
The rest of the band arrives and the we-should-probably-bail nods are exchanged. On the back of a client brief I write a note for the girl I’ve been watching from afar. She can clearly see me in her periphery and the intensity with which she talks to her friend increases as I approach. She has predicted the predictable.