From the diner, we see a woman rip a parking notice from the windscreen and take photos of her car. I ask you for more water. There are three of you serving us, you merge into one person with short hair, ponytails and the beginnings of a beard. You are all friendly or young. Outside, an oak tree has lost its leaves. Nature is outside of here. How can we change, when we don’t know where were before? You offer ketchup and I take it, pour it over my burger, eat desperately, thinking of rotting apple cores, ruined crops.
Posts Tagged ‘hair’
Posted in Age: 21-30, Gender: Female, Location: Café/Restaurant, tagged city, conversations, creative writing, hair, literature, london, nature, One Hundred Days To Make Me A Better Person, strangers, writing on December 10, 2009 | Leave a Comment »
Your hair falls in the same way mine does, over one shoulder, uneven ends trailing down your chest. You’re roughly a head taller than me but that might be your shoes. A name like yours is unnatural shortened but still, you have chosen this label that trips me up. It’s too immediately familiar. You speak about a new opportunity, not with wistfulness but restlessness. It’ll tie you down and you want absolute freedom. In you, there is a bright glowing place. I’d like to see you stand upright, holding a cigarette upright between angled fingers, hair piled on your head.