9:08:08

9:08:08- I was a composer before I met you. When I didn't know that Tyelenol was a perfect picture world you kept inside your purse. Let us talk about that party where we ate Vegan food, I'm running against the wind through an all inclusive party where your Brother Mother and Dad swore it was the last time since they caught me smoking cigarettes outside on your door steps, and Casey might have been the catalyst but I swear I had no idea that Rainbows came in all shapes and sizes I thought we were just going to go there for one night. Your birthmarks and your radios were playing throughout the summer and I mentioned that I like Marilyn's only after I saw the one laying in your bed, two pillows and a pair of white suspenders our voices suspended in the transition, some blankets and a bathtub to a yelling noise from up the stairs....scream and shout, the cleaning never got done, but the same socks and the same stars, and the same people will wait outside on doorsteps singing songs that you only know because you were introduced to fame by familiars, now is familliar a taste of a texture? The redolence of VapoRub? Or the hypocrisy of open-cakes?

9:08:08- 12:24am. A woman and a postcard met on a street corner. She was not a prostitute in case you were wondering. She was wearing tight purple leggings and a light blue frock that went nicely with the white t-shirt she had underneath the gold necklace around her neck. The post card was from some city she was going to go to once on a train but instead she got off at a different stop. There were some words scribbled on the back, and although she found it on the ground there was something familiar about the words, and not the words so much but the hand writing it was written in, the writing, it looked familiar. She went home after staring at the ground for fifteen whole minutes. When she got back, after she got inside of course, she sat on some orange cushioned bar stools along the counter of her living room/bedroom studio apartment on the West Side, but not a bad part of town, it was just West. She had prepared a cup of Peppermint Tea for herself, but had left it in the microwave too long so she had to sip it really slowly like it was some type of potent apotropaic. Before her third sip, she decided that she was going to go back to the street corner where she had seen the post card, and if it was still there she was going to pick it up with her right hand, because things off the ground should be picked up with your right hand, and if it was there she was going to take it home with her. The street corner was, in fact, the street corner at the end of her street and so she arrived there quite quickly. She looked down at the ground trying to remember exactly where she was standing, it seemed to her that the post card must have moved. She was slightly bummed out, because she had left her Peppermint tea at home to see if the post card was still there, and now had to go back home to her idle life of Arts & Crafts and conversations with friends. When she approached the gate to her apartment building there was a boy outside. He had on a pair of jeans with holes in the knees, blue shoes with white stripes on the sides, they looked like bowling shoes, but she could tell that they weren't, that they were just some style of designer shoes. He had on a cotton t-shirt with a logo on the front, and a worn down baseball cap. She had never seen this boy before, and he was holding her post card, or the post card that she wanted to be hers in his hands. She looked at him in his beautiful green eyes, she believed Green eyes were beautiful not dangerous like brown eyes, but heavy with experience and love. He spoke.

-Abigail?
-How do you know my name? Have I met you before? You're cute, what are you doing here?
-I'm Tom. I sent you this postcard, you didn't get it? You didn't get it.
-You have to put those things in mailboxes if you want them delivered. Obviously you didn't follow the instructions that weren't on the post card.
-Sorry. I wanted to tell you that I liked the way your hair looked, but you leave the house so late, and I'm always out by 7 a.m. so I just wanted to send this over.
-That's sweet. A little awkward, but sweet. I just made some Peppermint Tea, do you want some.
-Love some.

Abigail entered her apartment with a gleam about her, not that she hadn't been happy or excited to be home or to have friends over before, but excited that this boy, this character in her neighborhood had gone the extra length to get in touch with her. He smiled nicely at her in a way she really liked, and she had met other boys before but she really liked him, it was something, and she liked it. She tossed her tea in the sink and prepared two cups of tea for the both of them. Instead of sitting at the bar stools they sat on the futon in her living room. They sat there and talked for several hours, and shortly after the sun went down he had to go home to make dinner for himself. They exchanged personal information and talked of a tea date in the future, after she walked him out she went back and sat on one of the bar stools in her kitchen. She reached for her cup and brought her fresh Peppermint Tea to her lips, took a sip, and found beneath her cup the postcard. The words were illegible even up close, but the writing was still familiar.