It is still raining outside on soggy red brick. Ruth sits on a stool at the window and watches from up above, dipping her chin into the foam. Umbrellas proceed almost solemnly down the street, rims touching each other almost tenderly. Like schoolchildren proceeding hand in hand. She thinks about HIM. How could I have washed off so easily? She wonders. You leave. You leave and leave. In the morning, you begin the disentangling. In the morning you go. In the morning you are gone. She is impressionable. Yet she does not leave an impression. She is like a ghost, a non-thing. Ruth doesn’t know this but a man in the café is watching her too. He has a sketchbook in front of him. He is drawing her outline. He is sketching her dramatic silhouette. A young girl pensive watching out the window. She is an unknown. He has discovered her. A beautiful sight. She has a beautiful figure, this slip of a girl. He wouldn’t mind poking her a bit with his pencil. The rain has let up momentarily.
