If the several directions of her hair, then the light from the window makes it purple or darker. If the angle of her head, 45, is the angle of her notebook, 45, then a tongue that moves in and out of her crooked-tooth grin when she thinks. If she is right-handed with her middle finger over the top of her pen while mine is underneath, then her lips are pursed and her ears carry the scars of former earrings. If her posture changes from something that looks down instead of up, her green eyes flash and stare me down, and she says earl grey tea with half hot water, half soy milk is where it's at. I tell her I am tired, and her angle is now 60. If she cannot see my eyes and she has come to Boulder to "push the edges and learn more," then my back hurts and she has a dancer's posture. If something like the introduction of her hand to her chin, thumb on her neck occurs, why doesn't she believe me when I tell her I am into journalism because I believe people are good? Her smile. Her bold glance. Freckles. If the plastic gems on her sweater take the light from a different way when her strong legs form a wide V-shape from a crosslegged position, then we talk and write at the same time, watching out handwriting turn to shit through the furious observation.
February 2000