January 5, 2024:
Strikingly tall. Six feet; dirty blonde; hair horns bound with red embroidery floss; fishnets; leather biker jacket. I try and fail not to steal glances.
She's visible over my friend's shoulder, seated near the fireplace outdoors at Stone. We're talking Frank Bardacke's book on farmworkers; she's on her phone, seemingly exasperated her date doesn't show.
My friend has cancer. I think about death, his and mine, while over his shoulder vibrant blonde life frowns with impatience.