The exact locations of the minute and hour hand aren’t important. Suffice it to say that you’re somewhere between drink three and six; that time of night when these things begin.
She’s been in the bar since your second IPA, the one your boy picked up as payback for getting his dinner. Red hair, chopped and dyed at a Hayes Valley saloon in exchange for too many of the tips she earned pouring unending cups of coffee and recommending the spinach, chorizo, and feta omelet. The layers of the cut complement the layers of clothes she’s wearing, that they are all wearing this fall.
Half an hour ago, there was a smile directed, almost certainly, at you. You looked at her, then past her, then back to your drink, knowing it was only a matter of time. There was an expectant possibility in her blue eyes and oval face. You try, and fail, from letting it show up in your posture.
You get off your stool and walk over. The journey of 1,000 miles begins with a single step. Then again, so does the journey of a single step.
[Buy Raised By Wolves.]
(Noah asked if we might have him around once a week. We were happy to.)