quartz street ➢ brad simpson [au]

three

// brad //

Her mouth faintly moved while she read.

I didn’t like to read.

I preferred music, which, to me, was nearly the same as books; they both tell a story.

She was a song, and I was a poem.

She was finished. She was written on a wrinkled, stained table napkin, polished on smooth paper, written over and over again on sheet music, reviewed by guitarists, drummers, bassists, and vocalists, arranged, recorded, and reviewed to perfection.

She was worked on for how long with determination. She was flawless.

I was a poem.

Written with greasy fingers that pressed on the keys too aggressively. I was typed and erased, typed and erased, typed and erased, until the writer got tired and gave up. I was an incomplete word file stuck in an old computer, waiting to be opened. And when I was opened, I was typed and erased, typed and erased, typed and erased, until unsaved.

I was a mess with the most unorganized mind. I was flawed.

The coffee shop was dull; uninteresting people busy being sophisticated, restless individuals trying to stay awake.

I looked forward to my breaks not because I could escape the monotony of the coffee shop, but because I could see her.

I found comfort in watching her while she read. I would put on a pair of sunglasses so that I could look at her without having to hide.

I liked to put the rim of my coffee cup right under my bottom lip and blow out air to cool it down, watching as the clouds of smoke surround the picture of her before me.

I could stare at her all day.