I keep thinking about how you told me that he was in a knife fight recently. I keep thinking about how incredibly interesting that would have been, whether I was a spectator or another fighter. Then I start wondering why it happened, how often it happens, where do you keep the knife, how many times have you gripped it only to realize you were not in danger, or how many times didn't you swing it fast enough.
And what about you, the girl who spends what seems like hours applying makeup. Don't you know you are beautiful, with or without the makeup? I wonder what your wound is, what you're trying to hide or make up for with glorious shades and blushes.
Fascinating. I hope to meet you both again; I'd like to learn more. My observations may not be keen, in which case I want to ask that you clarify, but these words stick between my teeth, and they refuse to exit my imagination and enter reality.
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