I took her out to breakfast. Because that's my move.
Angst. Alcoholism, and hash browns.
With a lingering hint of ex-smoker, and soul survivor.
I dunno why I picked her, pretty face, and probably a terrible fucking person.
The kind that picks fights without caring if she's right or she'll win.
But She had this halo about her. A glowing ring of asshole ex's, great hair, and unharshed skin.
We talked about great movies she hadn't seen, shitty music she listens to on the way to her shitty job.
I mostly listened, drank watery scalding-hot coffee, and went to piss a couple times due to my nerves, and old-man prostate the size of a beef-steak tomato.
She smells like the kinda places you don't wind up at 4:00 on a Thursday.
She smiles like superficial secrets, a faker burying her self with a million selfies,
clammoring for air and sunlight. Yearning to be free.
I'll call her. Probably tomorrow. Even though she can't sing.
