I own this, my writing, my copyright, dont fuck with me.
Trina sat on the edge of a stranger’s bed. She ran thin shaking hands through dyed black hair. She was hung over, she was exhausted. She laced up her docs and slung her comfortable backpack over her right shoulder. She did not look back, it was a time to leave.
Loneliness hit Trina harder than most. She walked down city streets filled with mindless strangers. She had tattoos that reminded her of lovers who never loved. She tried to cover her heart with concrete like old stone buildings which held memories of families talking around long since gas converted fireplaces.
The soles of her docs were developing wear and she could feel the coldness of the sidewalks on her feet. Men walked by her in business suits, women in dresses and uncomfortable hosiery. She watched the ground as she walked. Strands of hair fell in her eyes and mouth.
Tears fell and she wiped them on her dirty cardigan. She wanted to be home on her mothers lap wrapped in a shawl. She wanted her father to tell her stories about her grandmother. She wanted everything in that life she left behind.
Coffee shops and chain restaurants lingered on lifeless city corners as she passed. Cool young men wrapped in leather coats and bulky scarves stood outside talking about new music and espresso. They hardly glanced at her as she walked by. A few would put their hands in their pockets and stare at her with lidded eyes but that was seldom. She liked the way they looked sometimes she would sit in far corners and sketch them. Some had long, silky hair and dark eyes, some had short uncontrollable spikes that projected from their skulls in sexy dances, the sweet ones had curly hair long or short that gave them a poetic look which she always enjoyed. They all stood with hips thrust forward swaying with a slight air of arrogance as they talked. There were many of them, but she only talked to a few.
She dug out some change for a cup of coffee to warm her hands and walked into her favorite shop. It always smelled like hazelnut and fresh cookies. In the far table sat her favorite boy. She had been watching him for a while. He always sat at the same table writing in a marbled notebook with a short pencil. It got shorter every time she saw him. He was beautiful, but not in the conventional way. His features were long and sharp. His eyes were intrusive when they looked at her. His hair was short, curly and black. He wore black rimmed glasses and soft sweaters. She loved him, the way he looked, the way he carried himself in a world of strangers. She had decided that she would talk to him that day. Life would carry forth without some comment, but a comment was needed.
She purchased her coffee and walked to his table. He was writing furiously, his brows were intertwined, his eyes dancing across the page. “Hi”, she said smiling tightly. He glanced up at her from his work, “Hi, do I know you?” he asked coldly. “No.”, she said getting a little nervous, “I just see you here all the time and I was wondering what you are writing.”
“Ah, I am working on some stories I sell to a local rag.” He said smiling. “Can I see?” she asked walking a little closer. “Well, I don’t know if you would find it all that interesting, it is actually quite dull, technological stuff.” He said staring over his glasses. “Well can I sit and talk with you?” she asked. “Sure.” He was starting to look a little nervous.
She sat and talked to him about existentialism. It was the only pseudo-intellectual thing she knew anything about. She watched his mouth carefully form five dollar words. She watched his hands dance as he talked about Sartre. She noticed his eyes catch hers when she caught him staring at her breasts.
After about an hour of talking he asked her if she would like to come up to his apartment and have a bite to eat. She considered it for a minute and followed him up. He lived above the coffee shop.
She walked in and smelled stale incense. His apartment was tidy, but riddled with old beetles lithographs and pillar candles. He had modern black leather sofas and lots of what looked like cigar boxes that had been decoupaged with renaissance paintings. He lit a fire in the fireplace and cut up some roma tomatoes and mozzarella for a salad. They sat on his sofa, ate, and listened to some ancient blues sung by long dead men. She watched the fire pop and burn down.
He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her sweetly. They relaxed on the sofa and he petted her while he explained his life to her. She fell asleep feeling alone.