𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐌 . bob dylan

𝑽.

DECEMBER, 1963

He knew it was her, even through that bleary cafe window. She was sitting at a booth, alone, and had a porcelain coffee cup in front of her. She had a pencil pushed behind her ear, and a pen in her hand. Her pages–filled with ideas and details–were laid out, covering the entire wooden booth table. Bobby lit a cigarette, pretending to lean against a blue postbox. He glanced into the building every few moments, seeing her push a strand of hair away, or put her pen down while she thought.

The cafe was full of beatniks and posers who wanted to be poets. A few young men wearing sunglasses ogled at her while she wrote, holding essay collections from two-hundred years ago. She stuck out in a place like that.

For a few minutes, she leaned back and looked all around the cafe. She took a sip of her coffee, blew out a puff of air, and closed her stack of papers into the cover of her hardback book. She tossed a few bucks onto the counter and slipped her jacket on.

When she pushed open the door, Bob was sure she was going to walk right past him because of the deep look of thought she had on her face. But she stopped right outside of the cafe, sort of stalled like a little child would–swinging her leg to pivot her body–and stepped towards the mailbox he was leaning against.

Magda was catlike, he watched her then. Her steps were long and slow and her body wasn't tense. She was relaxed and moved with ease, pulling the pale green envelope from the messy stack in her hand.

When she looked up from the leave-covered concrete, her green eyes got bright and she grinned.

"Hi, Bob," she said, quickly slipping the envelope inside, shoving her hands in her pockets. Bob stood up straighter.

"Hi, Magda. What are you up to?" They began to walk down the street, very slowly.

Maggie shrugged, "I'm out of ideas. I've been writing all day. You?"

Bobby shrugged too. "Just walking."

"Ah. Anything happen since August?" She reached into her suede jacket and flicked open her pack of cigarettes. She pulled one out with her her lips and Bob took one when she offered.

"Oh, uh, me and Joanie broke up," Bobby said. He leaned over for her Zippo and they took the foremost first puff,

"Oh, why?" Magda asked.

"I'm still not sure," Bob said.

"Uh," Magda said, jokingly, and Bobby smiled. "Maybe a little bit of a mistake."

"Really? How so?" Bob said calmly.

"I don't know, she's cool." Magda's slight New York accent made her mumble. Bob didn't reply, but only looked at the side of Magda's face. She had on her reading glasses and she looked partly boyish. They were quiet for while, and they walked for an even longer time. At a park bench, they sat down. Bob propped his arm up on the back of the bench and Magda crossed one leg over the other.

"Do you like the city?" Magda asked.

"Most of the time. Unless I see a mugging, or I have to take the subway." Magda airily laughed. "Sometimes I want to go home, but then I remember how boring it was there."

"You're from...Minnesota right?" she asked, raking her mind for what she'd heard on the radio.

"Yeah, this small town, Duluth."

"Why'd you leave?"

Bobby looked at his shoes for a moment. "There wasn't anything there. I know everyone says that about their hometown, but there wasn't."

Magda nodded. "I thinking living somewhere for so long kind of...dulls it down. You don't think something's good anymore–or even ever–if it's all you're ever around. Rereading a book ruins it, and a painting isn't as astound the second time around the museum."

"Hey, maybe you aren't out of ideas," Bob said with a smile, nudging her shoulder.