Old friends - Lost friends: She is 27 years old. She wears her hair in dreadlocks and a black scarf that smells of sweat, oil paint, and Egyptian musk. Her cheeks hold a pinkness that often moves to the tip of her ear lobe. This is especially the case when she is stoned and laughing. She chews on cinnamon sticks to avoid smoking cigarettes. She listens to early 80's riot girl music and instead of dancing, kicks the wall with her heavy boots. She wears boots with cut off jean shorts, men's athletic socks and well-worn t-shirts. She never wears a bra. Her eyes are the color of the sea right before it melts into a coral reef. There is always a thin layer of sweat on the surface of her pale white skin. Her small, soft belly protrudes slightly over the edge of her waistband. She eats cream cheese and vegetables. Her voice is deep. When she talks her eyes dance, her feet shuffle, her hands slap random surfaces. She talks about picking avocados in India. She talks about painting and Thai Chi. She talks about love.
He is 25. He stands on the same corner on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn watching people walk. He has an unopened 40 in a brown paper bag next to his feet. He wears faded blue jeans, a basic white t-shirt, generic athletic shoes without socks and a woven bracelet on his right wrist. He has a figure eight tattoo on the back of his neck. He is thin and average in height for a white man. His dusty blonde hair is cut short in no particular fashion. His choice of clothing and hairstyle temper his good looks. He spends hours alone at his writing desk. Beer bottles build up outside his door. When he laughs he puts his hands on his belly. It's a mostly silent laugh followed by a high pitched squeak.