I like old stuff, too. And new stuff, and hard stuff and soft stuff—if it’s music, I like.) She comes back to the graveyard twice more the next week. No, really, I’m not hiding behind an oak tree and staring at her like some kind of psycho. I was working nearby. I’m just … on a break. And stuff. Fairy Girl isn’t the most gorgeous female on the planet, but she really is beautiful, and she seems thoughtful and smart, and she’s sad, and every time I see her crying, I think about … Galloping up on a white stallion and asking her what dragon I should slay. Breaking into a Broadway number to make her laugh. Stepping into the afternoon sunlight like a gunslinger and tipping my hat. Offering her a handkerchief. A clean handkerchief. Or … Saying hello would be a start. Sometimes she sits by the grave she visits and reads. Other times, she has a little notebook with her, and she writes. This afternoon, I think she’s sketching. She has long fingers. And probably good-enough eyes to notice a dork lurking behind an oak tree.
