Barefoot

The kitchen table in her apartment wasn’t exactly dirty. It wasn’t exactly clean either. It was white with little colored transparent stains on there as if juice dribble had been there. Sprinkled around were tiny shavings of tobacco. I imagined her on some nights spinning the cigarette between her fingers with a coffee mug of vodka cranberry, staring at a notebook like the next words she wrote were just about to pop into place. She spent more time spinning the cigarette than writing, yet she’d always had the talent to concoct the most translucent intros to a story. One day, she had an epiphany, chugged her mug, lit her cigarette and wrote an entire book with nothing but those beautiful intros, and never had to worry about paying for a meal ever again.

“Make yourself at home,” she says, “there’s beer in the fridge, but I’m sure you’ll find that out soon enough.” she laughed. I’d always admired that laugh of hers, it was brief, deep, but womanly. A womanly laugh She went into the restroom as I looked at the photos on her wall. She’d done everything. There were pictures of her as a ballerina, one where it looks like she did stand up comedy in front of a brick wall, planting trees, etc.

“What haven’t you done?” I asked with bolstered volume.
“I haven’t ridden a pink unicorn yet. Wait, I don’t know what you mean.” she shouted back from the restroom.
“I’m looking at your pictures.”
“How dare you!? Those are private, get your eyes off my wall!” She joked, “They were all me in different stages of my life, like you and yours.”

The thing that attracted me most about her was the fact that she spoke like she was reciting song lyrics. It’s in her writing too. She just had this way of taking dreamy lyrics that seemingly have nothing to do with anything, and transformed them into something tangent and real. She was the most clever thief I knew.

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