I joined a fun little writing group. The second or third week in, I ended up writing this little story spontaneously. Everything in it is true, but its a mish mash of different stories threaded together.

"Let's get dressed up. You come over around 8. I'll make pancakes. We'll talk about art with and A and Living with an I." That's what I wanted to say anyway. I guess that's the way it happened, just about.

She had better words for better thoughts but dammit if I didn't try my best. We sat awkward before awkward was cool, we spent silent time dreaming of the rambunctious dialog we could be having and once in a while we connected.

She followed me to my bedroom anyway.

Somethings are easy and some things are difficult but everything and I mean everything either happens or it doesn't.

I asked her what she was doing tomorrow. She said that wasn't as a clever a remark as I probably thought it was.

I asked her what she was doing in a week and and she said I'd either be there to see or I wouldn't.

I asked her to ask me something and she said, "Will the landlord care if I paint your walls?"

Two years later and I've barely spoken to her since. But the Beatles stroll across my wall in abstract deliverance and I think of her sometimes.