He wrote a book about her. He does not know he wrote a book about her. But she knows, she is acutely aware.
The sun shines in her eyes as she sits next to him in Washington Square Park and she can see it refract into a thousand pink and white lines off of her eyelashes.
He asked her why she moved away from Minnesota, to New York. She natters on for a while about plenty of good, sound reasons for leaving the Midwest. Then she stops.
"I guess I left to miss it. I wanted to miss Minnesota. To pine. I love to pine for things."
This was the first time she thought of this. She became self-conscience.
"You should learn to pine. It feels good," She said.
"Maybe I will, maybe I will drive 390 miles home thinking 'Sarah' . . ."
She blushed. She could not believe he said that.
He wrote a book about her. Her name is the eighteenth word in his book. This makes her feel more lonely than ever.
She is alone.
He is at Wal-Mart right now. Reading Yates and hating most everything. Soon, she thinks, he will be at Denny's, talking to a waitress named Stacey, who is tragic and beautiful. Stacey is a fuck up. Stacey has a great ass.