adrena

He walks out of the caf door and briefly surveys the taken tables and benches. He is looking to be alone, but he knows her, and he does not hate her so he walks over to her table. She is in a book, she is really reading book. She does not do the infamous, survey of the crowd when she changes pages, pausing to drink her coffee and make sure that she is being seen reading, being seen here. No, she does not take her eyes off the pages, from memory she reaches for the coffee, from memory she pulls the pen out of her rats-nest of an up-do, and from instinct, she finally looks up when his shadow crosses her face. She smiles at him, a toothy foolish grin that fits when one does not have words. She moves her backpack, from the empty chair next to her to the one in which her feet are resting. Without philosophy, he puts his coffee on the table, next to hers and sits next to her. He has a book in his hand, and before sitting down, pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. He offers the pack to the girl who is still smiling at him, now less toothy, more pleased. She shakes her head but keeps watching him as he sits down.
What are you reading?
Hmm?
The book, which one are you reading?
He asks this like there is the real possibility that she could randomly be reading selection out of any canon of literature and no response would surprise him, and its not small talk. She turns the cover towards himInvitation to a Beheading.
Nabokov? You like him?
It doesnt matter whether I like him, I like some of his stories. I never met him.
She is not trying to offend, it is just how she talks, and he knows this, at least he is getting some authenticity out of her, he knows no one gets the truth. She does not lie, she just does not tell the truth. He says nothing. He wants to ask what the narrative is about, but knows that is trite, and she will think it contrived. Therefore, he says nothing. They look at each other for a moment and then with an outward sigh she turns back to her book.