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I am nearly out of cigarettes.

I was sitting at the end of the bar, the one closest to the door, because of the easy access it afforded me to smoke. Casually leaning my head back against the bricks every once in a while, but I could still see you talking to the blonde guy that looks a bit like the guy from the Spin Doctors, and see, I aged myself with that.

I had ordered my third cider, wondering if I shouldn't have just left out right, instead of hanging around, under the pretense of waiting for the Sound Guy to talk to Sam.

You were obvious, darling, in your need to spend longer than necessary looking at the independent news papers gathered behind me. Though I'm sure those glances you chanced at legs pearched on bar stools was more than you could afford.

Because I could see the easy way in which she draped arms across you, and how excited she was when you took your turn at moaning on the non-stage.

So I imagine in some parallel universe I'm desirable for more than sideways stares at obvious cleavage. And, I imagine in that same universe, I could easily just reach the six inches of space between you an I, and graze your forearm.

But, this is here and now. And I have a headache, and have to be at work in one hour and forty-five minutes.

(And, I nearly rushed home, in hopes of catching your mumbling voice across telephone wires.)

11:05 a.m. - 2003-07-11


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