"****."
She says through a mouthful of cigarette smoke and hair. She has bitten open her lip again, and it bleeds.
This is not unusual; blood is her own scarlet lipstick. Breaking skin is a nervous habit she just can't shake.
But she laughs it off, pushes dark hair out of a pale face. Her eyes are as gray as the winter sky.
We stand under the eaves of a dilapidated old restaurant. The sign has read CLOSED for at least six years. It's not raining but it might as well be. The air chills my open eyes.
It's mostly quiet.
She smokes.
I write.
When she breaks the silence I listen reverently. She talks of little things, anecdotes I can't resist.
She thinks philosophy is *******.
One time she spat out her toothpaste and it was ******.
She hates her freckles.
(I think they are stars on her skin.)
She had to dissect a baby pig once and she doesn't eat meat anymore.
She has broken the law twenty-two times.
She keeps count.
I don't ask her questions because I know she won't answer. Something stops her answers in her throat.
She laughs often.
She is not happy, though.
There is a distinct heaviness about her persona. It's the air of a frequently-exploited soul. I am filled with a vicarious sadness when I am with her.
I wonder if perhaps I am siphoning some of her sadness and if maybe she feels a bit lighter.
I don't know.
It does begin to rain. She is in love with rainy days. I hope it brings her peace.
She gazes at the rain as though she can feel each droplet seeping into the ground, her soul.
I gaze at her the same way.