It’s summer, dark and quiet up here. Imagine the heat, the lights, the noises — and the girl, curled up on the black wooden chair, chin on her knees, absently looking out over the city of dreams.
I bend over the table for the pack of cigarettes and take one out. I’d ask her to join me, but I’m not in a rush to get her talking. I know we have all night, which is both strange and exciting.
Exciting because she has that je ne sais quoi that can only be found in someone’s eyes, or sadness, or intensity. I look at her and it’s everywhere. It is my second nature to watch people when they’re out of their comfort zone; that’s how I get a feel for my stories. But with her, the more I try to catch that something to put on paper, the more I end up caught in…
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