I called her Broadsmile, and she's vanished. In the chill before gentle daybreak, she'd served my tea in a cobalt-coloured cup but drank something too bitter to be java. We discussed Sartre, the Simpsons, predestination and neon pinwheels. She promised to make up her eyes like Cleopatra someday. I crashed. She researched all night. Her note suggests she's haphazardly crisscrossing the continent. From her seat, the trees vibrating with blazing hues of autumn may resemble a garden of vivid flowers. Maybe she'll live with her carnival glass upon a windswept, weather-blasted rock, and I'll never know what she was thinking.
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"Classic"
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