The brunette walking towards me is Linda. Spanish for pretty, and that she is, but it's a name from her mother's generation and rarely given over here. She flashes a smile of recognition from behind her mirrored aviators. The last time I saw her, I guess two summers ago (she's been away somewhere), she was wearing gaudy, over-sized Chanel sunglasses.
I wink back.
She's wearing skinny jeans so tight I can read the contours of every object in her pockets. On the right, a cellphone, of course. Not an iPhone. I'm guessing an LC Viewty and — judging by the vibes I'm getting off her — the pink model. Left side, it looks like 3 euros & change and a small Bic lighter. No key ring and she's not carrying a bag but I'm not sure what to make of this; perhaps she knows she'll always find an open door somewhere.
The guy she's with I've seen around the neighborhood. We've never spoken but mutually acknowledge our existence. He's also wearing skinny jeans, though thankfully not as tight, and a teeshirt with the anarchist logo silk-screened across the chest. I wonder how much he paid for it. Peeking out from the right sleeve just above an atrophied bicep, what looks from a distance like it might be a barbed wire or celtic armband tatoo turns out to be a Peanuts comic strip.
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