Office

So I swing by the new office, akin to Chrome's office, but this one is empty most late nights unless there is a game. It is a sportsbar. Jean is 28 and angelic and nursing her first Cabernet because the bar is slow and her shift might as well have ended. Heath just got off from his nursing gig and needs a Budweiser. Josh is working the bar and he's from South Dakota and almost could pass for an unshaven Turk, and he's one of the best folks in the city who can give you the honor of serving you a crown on the rocks for 4 dollars or a sweet teat infused vodka for free. But Jean fits the bill of the old place in Indiana: every server girl has a story and a PhD. In Seattle, assuming something similar, a girl told me she considered suicide after I asked her what sort of PhD she held. "I never got my degree or finished high school. I haven't felt this blue for a long time." Jean worked for an orphanage in Peru and had feelings about inner city schools. Her face was rare and cocaine her thighs and arms ass beckoned sexy feelings. She brought her knees to her chest but sat unguarded and chill. She's from Milwaukee, she says, and mix of lake and motor and germans made the orange flag indicate a hook on my tipup. Jean can teach and tell you a lot, but I wanted to take her home and know her better. I didn't need a number because I could see her again because she works there. So I gazed at the silhouette of her face and lowered my glance to her thighs, once again. Every day I live freely, no matter the country or context, I see new things. Most of the time I postpone my adventures due to fatigue or lack of focus. This night, in deep exhaustion, I wandered lonely to eat a burger. I met Jean. If she carried a clipboard I would follow and point and nod. Decorative urns.