In Sweet Good Old Guitarland

The ashes flown down to the ash tray, like snow falling down in a blizzard. A rushed affair with no boundaries. They scattered over the table, when the café door open, and closed. A few rain drops came with it, as the French people shake their umbrellas to slight dryness.

Alex hated that, the rain drops spattering his already damped notebook. His pencil laid beside it, untouched since he took it out of his messenger bag. The late afternoon and the rain brought him here today, to warm cups of coffee, soft conversations, and a few rounds of smokes. Alexander Brandon Graham was his full name, British by birth, with the accent to go with his melodic voice. His hair was a dirty beach blonde, ruffled to a messy disaster. But it was his eyes that lured you in, the color of hazelnut. A richly color full of mysterious entrancing fascination. They were covered with thick black-rimmed glasses.

He had no company, except his messenger bag, in the seat next to him. It was filled with textbooks, graphic pens, and music sheets.

"More Coffee?" asked the raven-haired waitress, another fellow college student earning her wages.
"No thanks."
"Alright then, tell me if you want anything." She smiled at him, and went to the next table.

He flicked his cancer stick into the ash tray, continuing to stare at the smiling waitress. Her hair reminded him of a girl he once knew. Her wavy hair was smooth and shiny, always luscious to touch. It also smelt nice. Her eyes were green, with a look that would of made you think that you were in a green grassy field. She even had that slight French accent in her tune.

The smoke puffed out of his mouth, as he remembers the great times, he spent with Aly, the angel of his dreams.