San Francisco: Part II
That girl. With the blue-grey hair. That. That’s my girl.
Her head was crooked over a book. Slim and only a hundred pages but he got the feeling that he wouldn’t be able to read it. She sat there on a red-coated metal bench with limbs loosely bent, akimbo. A broken little doll was what she was.
He dismissed that idea quickly enough.
She raised her head for a moment. Not to watch college boys play tag football. Not watch anything at all. But she didn’t seem distracted.
She slipped a worn postcard to mark her place and got up.
Her there. With that hair. My girl.
He felt her touch his elbow briefly as she walked by. But she didn’t stop.
She walked on thirty yards. Paused. Was that a beckoning gesture?
He didn’t know but ran after anyway, catching her slim waist around with his arms.
Is it for real? he asked.
Can it be grey already? She passed a hand through her hair with a halfway laughing flair. They call it poetry. But I think they forget to change the words.
I remember what it was like.
You know how it is.
I’m not that young.
And I’m not that old.
What are you reading?
Nadja. Andre Breton. He was a surrealist. The book is about a girl, but she isn’t really a girl. I doubt I understand it well enough.
Are you single?
Technically yes but I’m not free. She slipped herself out from him and shivered.
He noticed that it wasn’t very cold.
Do you work? she asked after a pause.
Not very well.
She laughed. I work for myself. The most part anyway. I need a typist. Would you be interested?
Of course.
Business partners then. They shook.
Business partners.
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