i like to think that her life is much more interesting than mine
more glamourous
more real.
I watch her for signs of this, although I am never completely sure
what it is that I am waiting for.
Some sort of confirmation
that this isn't it
would be nice.
I sit across the room from her
and wonder
if she watches me
if my story is so fascinating and exotic to her as the one I have fashioned for her life is.
I feel very, very, normal, while she sits across the room from me.
I don't know her name, I don't know anything about her —
and yet, through the hours of sitting I have endured in this room, I have created for her an adventure of a living.