And she had this habit of ordering a coffee then fidgeting with her stuff until arrived.
As though that tiny espresso was her centre of gravity.
She was bizarre in that way, right up until noon.
Of course she smoked, as her mother did.
And each one always lasted a little longer than she liked.
She kept her ashtray neat. All the ash had to stay right in the middle. It couldn't touch the empty sugar sachet she'd ripped up and pushed to the side or this god awful burning plastic smell would consume the air.
I think that's why I thought she was alright. She had her batshit crazy rituals right up until noon - keeping things where they should be and all. And I think that's how you know a girl's alright, when she won't let plastic burn because the smell annoys everyone else.
She didn't take notice of the news either. In fact, I'm sure she'd been out of the loop for a few months now. It kept her sane I reckon, almost justified her more-than-questionable habits.
I think she didn't pay attention to it because she'd decided it made her smoke more.
And she didn't applaud the idea of being as miserable as the bastard bank men her father once said she'd do well with.
I couldn't tell you all that much more about her.
In truth, I don't know her.
We stop by the same cafe each morning, I linger nearly all day, except I know she doesn't see me, she doesn't see anyone, she's too busy.
Somedays she stays an hour or so, calls her mother, is reminded to eat, she ignores most of the incessant nagging I imagine.
And other days she's fast as hell. Barely looks up from the centre of gravity.
Either way, she's mesmerising.
Girls will do that to you, they'll drive you crazy with their weird habits.
They don't change though, never do, not really.
Especially not for bastard bank men.