A Pause

He starts to take out the piece of printed paper place mat from the fast food place he could barely stand staying in for the muzak that if you're a bit inclined to thinking everything's easily conspirational, you would've thought it's subsidized by a corporate bureau solely commissioned to discourage introspective thought, and immediately writes the first thing that comes out of his mind that he could rip off easily a story from, so he might for once in a very long time finish a story he could a bit care about enough not to throw away. Oddly enough the first story he thinks of begins with the muzak that blares out of this bistro's stereo system but which he tries to veer away slightly unabated from but not without the kind of effortlessness you notice of people being nostalgic of pebbles because right now he is thinking of the story about the girl again.

This one right here is fairly not wanting a necessary strained effort you are required to give when, say, lining up in a grocery queue to purchase champagne, in order to be read by the right market focus audience. It is not easily fit into the simply lazy and uninspired category he's been loyal to fit all his women in to demonstrate how you couldn't get out of your concept of anything that matters to you. How you can't resist to write about it long and clear enough not to throw it away again or if you do you still can find the courage to pick it up or even remember in the first place you've written something even about it being more than just metaphor. But you write this quick enough you no longer worry about why you shouldn't be writing about it, if that's possible within the realm of what you think is time.

But this one's fresh. Acrid even. Misty if you will, in certain respects such as you're actually holding her hand or your shoulder's by her cheek under the current and draft of the aftermath of just mere threat of rain.

But there's no rain when he met this girl in the story we're probably no longer able to digress from without a single bit of threat that it's just sadly mainly trying to just go back to when you never even got bothered to write about it anywhere, anyhow, anytime.

This girl, as a foremost to a bigger albeit not better scene, starts it by responding to his question with "What?"

The question being was: Is This The Part I'm Supposed To Say Hello.

"Come Again?" being the follow-up message. With which he continued with, "See, if you're there and about to do something as unusual as asking a street kid to come with you and I was just there standing, sipping lemon iced tea with mini-cookies staring at the whole filed of the rotunda and then sometimes laugh at this man's attempt to sell us cigarettes, what with his dirt-laden hands that clearly wouldn't be a hindrance to people who might think of buying some sticks from him even out of pity, if I may be allowed to be blunt and slightly awkwardly trying to be clever about it. And then you're there, a few steps away from me, wearing something I just gave up expecting people to wear in a weather like this, with that smile and this move with your hands and the natural awkward state obligatory for those who have seen these kids the first time. And then I could no longer help it but at the same time couldn't exactly pull off the game of putting some sort of real sexual exit out of the exactingly calculated and almost arabesque-like brilliance of the beautiful ratiocination that why bother when everyone might just have AIDS or, worse, want kids? People give up. So that's why I'm preferring to play the role the answer for which might easily be found in one mere question of where and when exactly should I say hello."

"Hello?"

"Yes, the simplest hello."

"To me?"

"It would be weird if it isnt."

"Well either way it is."

"You mean weird?"

"What else could it be."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"What do you mean what do you mean why?"