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She was quick with a laugh, providing an audience throughout the night—an audience being essential for my mode of being: tall and skinny, clothes (and hair) just slightly off from what would be considered excellent taste, so as to always puzzle the observer: he seems like a cool guy, but there’s a lingering feeling of incompleteness, a tiresome wait for the final accord in this composition.But: quick with a joke, or to light up your smoke. It’s a great talent to have, yet it comes with a threat: you have no idea how you do what you do, do you? You’re a slave to a brain that may, at any point, decide to no longer provide you with those sudden intuitions, spoken aloud the moment they appear, taking consciousness for a ride and making it parse the words coming out of your mouth, and only then allowing you access to meaning, evaluating it, and initiating mitigating actions when, as is bound to happen a bit too frequently, that meaning had no meaning, or was mean, or so meandering as to be. She managed a faint smile as she saw me. I noticed that her face was very pale, her blue eyes frightened and confused. There was moisture on her cheeks. Still leaning on the tree, she bent her head down looking at her feet, as if ashamed of something. “Jill, what happened?” She hiccupped. Then I saw that her left leg was bent at the knee as if she was trying not to put much weight on it. The heel of her pump wasn’t touching the ground. I couldn’t help glancing at the delicate curve of her calf. As I got beside her, she reached out, took my hand and looked at me. The tears in her eyes were disturbing to me, the pain in them, even more. “Jill, did you hurt your ankle?” I asked. “My ankle! No it’s fine.” It really looked fine. The black stocking made it look more seductive than ever. “I can’t believe that such thing could happen to me. It was a big pick-up truck. I think the driver was drunk. I was about to cross the street when he nearly ran me over. I jumped aside but…the.
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