it was drizzling

I nearly plowed over her in the darkness. She sat on a short set of stairs, outside the patio of the apartment building. The smell of foreign brand tobacco might have flagged me to her position on the step. I told her she scared me, something I'd thought of telling her in the past. Why scared, she wondered? I recovered, I had feared I'd run her over on my way to the street. It was the neighbor's girlfriend. Or the girl whose boyfriend and she live in the door down from mine. Or the female part of a couple who lives close to me on my floor. Slice it how you'd like. I've found from experience it's best to slice it as evenly as possible; in these tight quarters. We said our hellos, and she explained her absence from her apartment as needing some time to toy with ideas of slicing her relationship. Spoke of tiresome dutch-style expense division, and chivalry. She sipped her Miller Lite, I lit a cigarette.

She's a talkative, tall blonde, and if I hang around her in passing for more than a moment, I freeze into place. A conversation with a woman like her is a privilage, no doubt. There's no lack of charm about it. Like anyone from any land has an accent, she accents her often fascinating side of the dialog with a twinge of blonde. But no! Every point lands with insight and substance. So, she was in a tiff with her boyfriend, of seven years. She's a nice girl, I've met the guy, seven years? They'll work this out. I let my mind wander for a spasm. But no.

She spoke of fishing, and some of the local fish that have been caught in lakes of our region. I had not heard such enthusiasm for the sport since I heard myself talk to anyone when I was seven and obsessed with fishing. I thought it was great she carried it on in herself, to adulthood. She told me of a convicted arsonist once associated with our building, on the prowl about a year ago. The guy could've gone after our building if he'd not been caught. I think she was a little disappointed by my fear reaction. My nerves were still just a little apparent from her visage there.

We got on the subject of incense, when I asked where in town sells the junk. Junk; I'm looking for opium-incense, real extract if possible. My apartment smells like generic cigarette tobacco, I said. Apparently I'm not the only one in the building that will get to one's car, only to go back inside to be sure there's not a cigarette left burning. That was a laugh; really. Shutting off the stove is another one, I said. Like you're trying deperately to recall the synapse and feeling of twisting the knob to the 'off' position. Connotative, but inawkwardly delivered. I was doing pretty well at talking to this pretty lady. It was dark though, and the telekinetic tongue-tying rays her summer getups pump out were slight.

Anyway, she had to pee, informing me that she'd peed there outside the building on occasion. She was one up on me. I would eventually, she said. I continued my walk to the store to get a six-pack of rootbeer, so I could relax with one before bed. The conversation had held me up, though. Arriving at the store, it was 12:10 AM, ten minutes past the cutoff for purchasing rootbeer. I selected a forty-ounce of Miller Beer, and told the cashier that I was just lettin' the system know where I stand on this ordinance.