She spoke with her hands mostly, and attached to those hands were these long slender fingers that danced like a conductors wand during the saddest movement of his symphony. What I felt was like a knife in my chest in the night, and involuntarily dropped the plastic bag of beer cans onto the street corner we met. One of the beers rolled steadily, uninterrupted by the cracks and tiny pebbles on the rain battered floor, into the gutter. I’ve met men who’ve given up the drink because they found God, but I was willing to give up the drink because I found her. I met her through a friend, and didn’t talk to her because I was timid, but because my body was already in the middle of a multi-task. Controlling my erratic heartbeat, the fist feebly holding the plastic bag now hold my chest as if it were to jump out at any moment, though to others, might have looked like heartburn, sweat pouring down my face as though it were a hundred so degrees, while my teeth chattered when I opened my mouth as though it were a hundred so degrees below. I only pray she paid no attention to me, and to my pessimism, she didn’t. She smiled, and disappeared into the hungry fog of the night with a Twizzler in her hand. Such a beautiful smile with a haunting impression.