Frances

November 27

 I remember I said goodbye to Frances assuming she was someone too important for the world to want to stay in my life. By some absurd force, she wasn't. I saw her again a few weeks later sometime in November.

 Im lying. It was 17 days later that I met Frances again. I suppose it seems bizarre, my tendency to remember exact details about the first few encounters we had. I don't find it odd, I remember everything about her. 

I think I am starting to understand Frances better, the more I write about her. I noticed the things she did but hardly noticed why. She kept secrets, not bad ones, but just secrets. She basked in her privacy. I always found her being a mysterious woman a questionable trait, yet here I am understanding.

 The second and third times I ran into Frances were an accident, I will tell you that. However, I find myself hesitant to share the details of those meetings. I fear that once I tell you the memories will be as much mine as they are yours. And I have never been good at sharing Frances.On November 27 I asked Frances on a date. She smiled, "I'm intrigued, where to?"

"Well I figured it would be unfair for me to choose, going on a date with you is a gift to me, my gift to you, besides my amazing presence, is picking anywhere."

"Right, I suppose I do have to find a place to make spending time with you more bearable," she said that mumbling but loud enough so I was sure to hear.

"You know you would be the first to find me boring, everyone else seems to love me.""Oh and you're cocky too, I really see why people love you."I leaned my head back as I laughed at that.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhm."

I looked down at her, taking in her presence. I made a promise to myself that in my writing of this book, I wouldn't mention Frances' beauty too much. I think she was told too often what she looked like and thats what made her forget people fall in love with her for more. I did, Frances, I took in your presence, the fact that you as a person with a personality that will take many chapters to encompass, were standing there with me.Thats not to say I find myself unbearable but I believe its impossible for anyone to be worthy of Frances.

"A Museum," she said, her eyes smiling with her words

."Why? You trying to find a place I'm not allowed to talk?"

"Ah, am I that obvious?"

This woman, I liked her answers to everything."Let me pick you up, I can come at 5," I said.She nodded.

"Thats it, you're not going to tell me where you live?"I had a general idea, she lived somewhere between the bookstore we were at and the bagel shop we had met.

She threw her head back and laughed, something she did a lot, and walked up to the cash register. "I'm sorry, can I please have a little piece of paper and a pen," Frances asked the bookstore clerk. After some scribbling of something she handed me the paper with her address printed on it. Her handwriting was artistic, it was neat and orderly but pretty in a way you knew she wrote it fast. She wrote small, the letters and number were tilted, almost cursive like."You know you could also give me a home phone, to call once I'm there" I said holding the paper up, looking at her a little questionably.

"Mmm, that'll do," she said, turning to the clerk again, this time with a copy of Octavia E. Butler's Kindred and Joan Didion's The White Album. Frances was a fast reader, and a very good one. She read better than me and I was the author between us.

 "Goodbye, Romeo," she called on her way out.

Goodbye Frances.

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