Model Bones.

I didn't see her again for a while, it felt like. I went back out there every day for the next two weeks and she was nowhere to be seen. Just the burn outs and alternative education and other kids I didn't talk to, all smoking their cigarettes or drinking water bottles filled with vodka and keeping their mind off where they were. This sea of people, but no sign of her. It almost felt like I had made her up, like she was a figment of my imagination. An extension of my personality, the person I wished I could be, just female. My female alter ego.

I began to think this until I saw her next.

There's a coffee shop by my house. Family run, in a run-down building made up to look really pretty on the inside. You could tell that the wife decorated it. It always smelled like coffee and pastries and I loved going in there. It was on a bad part of town, and my mom always warned me about going over there alone, so every time I wanted to go, I told her I was going with a friend. But I never did.

One day, I went there. I was craving one of those blended creamy foamy drinks, the kind loaded with milk and sugar and chocolate flavorings. I walked up to the counter and ordered it, and the girl behind the counter smiled warmly at me, and I smiled with sincerity in return. I liked nice people. They made me feel hopeful for humanity.

As I waited, I turned around to people watch. There was a couple of old ladies gossiping about their husbands and other things they had heard through the grapevine, and they spoke in what sounded like a foreign tongue to me, even though it was in English. There was a man in a suit typing away quickly on his laptop, looking focused and agitated at the same time. I wondered what he was typing. Was it a presentation? His resume? An angry email to his ex-wife? A suicide note? The girl behind the counter pulled me out of my voyeuristic daze to tell me my drink was ready. I whipped around and grabbed it, and she smiled at me once again.

The cynical part of me wondered if she was just smiling at me to receive a tip in her little tip mug that sat proudly on the counter. I wondered if, you know, she was genuine or not. She seemed it, but maybe she was just a good liar. I never usually doubted people, or questioned their motives out of what seemed like sheer paranoia, but for the past couple of weeks, I had been. I didn't know what it was then, what was causing me to feel that way and think that way. I do now.

I sat down at a booth, the booth nearest to the window. I sipped my frothy cream-based drink out of the brightly colored, almost child-like straw and smiled to myself briefly, pleased. It wasn't the best thing in the world, I would later find out, but at that moment, it was.

I continued to look around the coffee shop, dazed, enjoying my drink, when I saw a head covered with long, dark hair and a black, leather-looking jacket standing on the sidewalk. The gray, ominous skies hung above her head as she stared at them defiantly. My heart skipped a beat and I wondered if anyone else saw what I was seeing.

The girl with the long dark hair walked into the coffee shop after about five minutes of standing outside and glaring at the clouds. She smelled of cigarettes and humid air, and I reveled in the scent. It was close to the way she smelled the last time we had met, the very first time we had spoken. I stared at her intently; she didn't even look my way. Instead, she went straight to the counter and ordered a large black coffee in a monotonous way. The cashier girl smiled at her, and this proved to me that she wasn't genuine. I basked silently in the glory of being right.

She waited like I had, minus the whole "people watching" bit. She didn't even look my way. I continued to stare at the long, wet, tousled locks on her head and smiled to myself. She began to turn around, however, so I turned back to my drink and then attempted to nonchalantly look out the window.

I felt the booth's table shake.

My heart felt like a rabid, caged animal trying to break free from my chest. I looked up slowly, and there she was; sipping her coffee and staring at me. She said hello, and I squeaked out a pathetic, hi. I mentally kicked myself. She didn't say a word back.

We both kind of stared in silence at our respective beverages for a while. She seemed pensive, quiet, and deep in thought. But I could never tell with her. She was just this enigmatic being and I couldn't ever read her, or understand what she was feeling just from body language. You get used to it after a while, I suppose.

So... how've you been?, I asked, trying to start some sort of conversation. She just sort of looked at me with those big grey eyes of hers and smirked in what most would call a way that was "condescending". The smirk faded quickly, and she answered with a, I've been. I didn't know what she meant by that so I kept quiet. She seemed okay with that.

What brings you here?, she finally asked, not in a curious manner, but in a demanding one. It was almost like she was saying, what do you think you're doing here? Requesting an answer to the question, who do you think you are?

I gulped hard and told her that I lived right around this neighborhood, and she raised her eyebrow from behind her coffee cup. She half-smiled and said, oh really?, as if my answer was amusing.

I think she could smell fear.

Yeah, I said, the word trailing off, as if I had made some sort of confession and had nothing else to say. Hm, she retorted. Not exactly an intellectual response or a witty quip, or a biting remark. It did, however, make me ponder over her intentions for asking. Did she live over here? Did she want to see me more often? Or did she want to see me less? Should I just stay in my house?

A thousand questions flooded my mind, but my mixed concentration was broken by the sound of her monotonous voice flooding my ears.

What's your name? she asked, and my palms began to sweat. I don't know why, but I got nervous. I didn't like my name, it sounded brash and ugly. I didn't like to say it, and I didn't like to be called by it, but I didn't want to lie, even if it meant making me sound cooler to her.

So I said, Jack. My name is Jack. She raised both her eyebrows and sipped more of her coffee, either surprised because she didn't think I looked like a "Jack", or feigning interest because she didn't want to be rude. I chose the former, because she seemed like she would be the type to say whatever she was thinking and really not care who she offended. And for some reason, that made me have an immense amount of respect for her.

She switched the conversation before I could ask her her name, and I think to this day that she did that intentionally. She looked over at the dingy microphone and P.A. system that stood by some old recliners and sofas and a shelf full of old, probably donated books. She focused on that for a while, and I glanced over there as well.

I wonder who actually has the guts to do that, she said. I looked at her with a quizzical look on my face, and she continued with, you know... the open mic night. I wonder who could honestly sit in front of a bunch of local people and perform. I wonder who could honestly work up the courage to sit there and be silently judged by a jury of their peers. It must take a lot, she said. It must take a lot of cajones to do that. She smirked at herself, and I have to say, I smirked too. She was acting human, and in a way, showing me that she had some sort of emotion by admitting inadvertently that she didn't have the courage to do that.

You wouldn't do that?, I asked. I was honestly a little taken a back, and she made a noise with her mouth and throat to signify that she was finished swallowing. She started at that microphone stand like she was going to get the answer from it. Then she said, for the right price. She stopped, sipped, and did another half smirk. But for the right price, she continued, I'd do anything.

I didn't dare to ask her what she meant by that.