| She was standing in the lobby of the Leader building, fishing in her purse. Blue dress, nice pins from what he could see, black hair, shoulder length – pretty? Couldn’t tell, her head was down – Oh brother. Nice. She slid out a cigarette from a pack of Chesterfields, and lit a match – then she dropped it and frowned. She struck another: same thing. To the rescue, then. Joe let the elevator go. He took a matchbook from the pocket where he kept his samples. “Trade you?” he said. She glanced up, gave him a blank look, then looked at his hand. “Oh. Thanks. These keep splitting in half.” “These won’t. I made them. May I?” He took the blue book from her hand, ran his thumb along the edge of the match heads. “Damp. That’ll make ‘em break. It’s the -” She lit her cigarette. “Thanks,” she said. And she walked away. He looked at the book. A nightclub in Chicago. She was out of his league. He wouldn’t even know where to get tickets to watch her league play. Joe turned around, and watched her head through the revolving door. She turned left. If ever he wanted to find her, at least that narrowed it down. |
|
||
 |
|
||
this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home