chat chat chat.
She: listening to two young Indian women discussing a new hair cut. The woman reaches into her bag to pull out a scarf to cover her regret, when a pair of black lace panties drifts from the bag to the subway floor. JJ the gay rap artist on the train to D.C, packing jello shots and dildos for her sisters Bachelorette party.
We talked about how we write, characters plots crescendo, all these things other people use, while I'm still doodling in coffee shops. I really don't know the etiquette of writer speak, so I ramble off questions trying to help her flesh out a character she was having trouble on. Finally I admit to her, though only after the third Saturday night crowd struts past us off to some upper west side party, that the kissing on this stoop is a bit distracting, and I am not much for the attention drawn. Not much for making me feel any more comfortable she sits on me and kisses me harder. She hid my face in her hands, and I reminded her I am not an ostrich with my head in the sand.