"How old do you think she is?" Sam asked me. "I'm guessing late-30s."
"No way," I said, "early 20s."
"Then she's done late-60s worth of drugs." I nodded and sipped a 7-Up.
I was too embarrassed for this poor girl to stand inside and watch her do whatever it was she was doing--gyrate? throttle? sterilize?--so I stepped outside to the small bench adjacent to the big window looking into the bar.
"Weird place, huh?" said the girl that I hadn't seen, already sitting on the bench. She's a dainty thing, and her blue sundress catches the light showering down from the flickering streetlamps and the whole scene looks like a music video for a song that'd be on an especially overwrought episode of Grey's Anatomy or something.
And I wanted to talk to this girl. I wanted to hear what she's doing in a tiny town in the mountains of the southwest. I wanted to know what her favorite movie is and what kind of dog she'd like and what she used to dress up as for childhood Halloweens and why her favorite is color is what it is and what she thinks about Big Things and if she's ever felt like talking to a nice person she runs into outside of a bar in God Only Knows, AZ but has become too emotionally internalized and conditioned to be skeptical and paranoid of the outreaches of anyone around her and if a situation like this makes her want to go back to the friend's house at which she is staying and try (unsuccessfully, of course) to fall asleep on the couch, wondering for an unreasonably disproportionate amount of time what it was that could have come of any of this.
But I half-smiled, nodded faux-dismissively, and wandered back inside because she looked just. like. you.