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She’s on her third cup of horrible, swamp coffee.

She likes the bitter kick. She’s wired – not really awake or asleep. She’s reached the

grey area. She sees the metaphor of a metaphor of a metaphor…….. She’s OCD. She groups

the letters of words from sentences to see if the sentence is odd or even. She even counts the

‘period’ and the dot of the ‘i’ .

She can’t stop thinking. Always moving.

They think she’s on drugs but she’s not though should most certainly be.

“Dristan and alcohol are a bad mix,” she states. “The back of your head pounds and only one

eye works.”

She’s been so pissed-off lately. So harsh. Cold.

She is ice.

She’s got these perma-bags under her eyes and fixed, ‘joue pas au con avec moi’

expression on her face. That’s french for ‘don’t fuck with me’ . We looked it up in this french

slang dictionary at some bookstore, days ago.

She creates her own hell – her own world of anger. She gives off these vibes: Go to

hell!, look at me, I’m better than you!

The cigarette dangling from her mouth is a constant. It’s so, “Fuck you. I accept toxins,” and

she holds her cigarette like a wise, old woman – a traveller from Portofino. Someone you

would stare at from across the room and make weird faces at and you would convince yourself

of what you think that person is all about. What their insides are like. But you are wrong. You

are always wrong.

She’s got this way of looking at you.

Right at you.


She is danger.

There is no point in my being nice to her – or warming to her because she doesn’t give a fuck.

She could be gone tomorow.

She is crazy brave.

She says you learn a lot about people by the messages they leave on answering

machines – how much they hate themselves, their insecurities.

She’s right about that. She is always right.

There’s no point in my obsession about her, because I know she doesn’t give me or the

thought of me a second thought.

I am her white noise. Background music, like in movies or supermarkets. Always there

but you don’t hear it unless you really pay attention. And when you hear it, you sigh and

remark how annoying it is. But when it’s gone it doesn’t feel right. It’s uncomfortably quiet.

I think I want to save her from herself. She is all I know.

“More coffee?”

She doesn’t even flinch. Usually, that means yes. When she’s had enough, she up and

leaves. No goodbye. See you later.

“Ffffff….,” that’s what laughter looks like on a piece of paper. She told me that once.

Don’t dare correct her. She only speaks what she believes, otherwise it’s not


She’s been sitting there awhile now. She wants us to think she is waiting for someone to

arrive shortly. We won’t sit with her.

She has this presence. We all stop and look when she walks in. We say hello, how are

you – though, we leave her be. We know she wants and wants not, our company. We will

never know which one she wants.

She’s waiting for someone who will never show up.

He doesn’t exist. Yet.

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