We talked for hours. She crossed her legs five times and three quarters, the last one she wasn’t sure she had to. Her pants were pressed neat, creases fading under new folds of a day’s milling about. Her shirt, a clean white, had two letters, R.S., sewn on its right sleeve, as if to remind her which side faces front because it had an oddly symmetrical collar. Her hand gestured for the bill and she was ready to leave. To go home where she clumsily strips down to her underpants as she lights a cigarette. She locks her room and starts writing on her computer. 

Are you there?