August 17, 2003

  • A flash of recognition passed from her eyes to mine when she walked through the door, then towards my car. I sat, watching and paused the radio. Arbitrary words, "Hey, what's up?", at first.
    Black curly hair pulled back tight, exposing the cut on her forehead she'd gotten boogie boarding. Olive skin (like mine) and brown eyes (like mine), she spoke with lilted cream soda-sweetness.
    Then the meat of the matter:
    She scribbled on the scrap of paper, smiling.
    A sun shower pit pit spattered its way into our conversation, darker dots on her dark shirt and the smug, oily smell of water on too hot asphalt. We parted ways with a call promised, plans unmade.

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