I'd seen her from afar so many times that her face was locked in my memory. I could see the
beauty, but also the suffering that lay beneath it.. That slightly wan look, hiding beneath the just-not-quite smile, the
glaze of
marijuana and beer in her system.
Most people don't notice; those that do don't usually say anything - they know the "
don't touch me" look, that of the
psychic leper.
I was instantly attracted to her for
reasons that I couldn't quite comprehend.
Then she sat down next to me one night. As usual, I stammered out some useless
small talk, and the conversation died instantly. Two stricken people sitting side-by-side, passing the hash pipe, weighed down by the same sickness: an
addiction of sorts.
An addiction to
misery.
She got up with her friends, also my friends, and walked away.
I knew I'd know her
someday.