Wednesday, April 09, 2008

University Line, committed.

Caucasian woman, late teens, with Kohl-rimmed eyes, long flat-ironed red hair, wearing fuchsia hoodie, silver studded belt, black skinny jeans, and black Converse with the tongues sticking out. Her toes point inward.

Nineteen Minutes, Jody Picoult (Washington Square Press)

Page 327:

The moment Mr. Weatherhall disappeared downstairs, Peter opened the sugar canister on the kitchen counter. The gun was still inside. Peter reached for it and reminded himself to breathe.
On Sundays, she walks ten blocks to a small cafe, long like a train car, and orders a cappuccino. They swirl a chocolate spider web on her foam and bring her a glass of water without her asking. Once an hour, a thin boy asks her if she's O.K. then goes back to the counter to lean heavily on one elbow, his short t-shirt riding up to show the creased band of his black boxers. She's always O.K. She can't afford to be anything else than O.K. But she'll tip well. They're nice to her here and don't ask her to give up her table, the sunny one in the corner where you can see everyone come and go. They know her, know her pen scribbles out confessions she'll toss in the garbage before leaving, stories in which the other server, a young woman with short purple hair parted hard on the right, features heavily as a love interest.

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