There is an attractive woman sitting across from me. A very attractive woman. A “9,” in the parlance of those people who use numbers for these things. An “L.A. 9.”
She looks familiar. I feel like she was the casting assistant on some movie I worked on. It is completely plausible that such a person would be sitting across from me on that bench. But if it is her, she doesn’t recognize me, or doesn’t want to acknowledge me. Maybe it’s not even her though. All good looking people essentially look alike. All perfect looking people.
I would never in a billion years go over and talk to this person. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what to say, aside from some obviously fabricated ruse that was just basically– I think you are good looking, and I would like to have sex with you. There is no other reason on the planet anyone would ever speak to anyone out of nowhere, except maybe abject loneliness. And yet here I am. I am thinking about her. I am writing in my stupid journal about her; she is looking at her phone and eating a ham sandwich. On wheat bread, with lettuce peeking out from the crusts. Homemade sandwich. Someone made her this sandwich, or she conscientiously packed it for herself. Good for her. More people should take the time and care to prepare their own meals. It’s good for your health, it’s exactly to your tastes, and it saves money.
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delicioustacos 