The poet ran his fingers through his long black hair. It was dark as he pictured how she looked in the mirror. But how she looked in reality was far different. He didn't care. His hair was different. He wore his hair longer and more luxurious than her. He noted a flaring tint of jealously in her eyes.
The poet turned his back to her face. She raised her voice into a scream. It was a silent scream. He didn't even know until he saw her contorted face. On the poet's head one hair was out of place.
At the taco stand, the girl was all sexed up in low cut lace. The poet ran his fingers through his long black hair then looked up and said one smooth word to her, "Spain." The girl asked, "Is that the place with rain on the plane?"
"No, it's where you will feel my pain!" And he began to play the accordion. As he bellowed the box, the tears streamed down his face and the girls face too. Suddenly, she stuck her fingers down her pants and dipped her fingers into her wide mouthed pot and began painting this story on a wall by the apothecary.
This story was the second story written by TM, CI, and BJ on the other side of the notebook paper I found on Monday, August 8th in the restroom at Rancho Bravo's Mexican restaurant. When I first moved to Capitol Hill a sleazy Kentucky Fried Chicken occupied this space.