TWO YEARS PRIOR:
(SOMETIME IN NOVEMBER)

A woman walked in holding a cardboard box.
The smell of smoke followed her in.
She puffed on her cigarette like she owned the place.
Who would want to act like they own a laundromat?

She moved clothes from her box to a washing machine like a 50-year-old mover ready to retire. There was a bag that she was taking the clothes from, an old thing, probably falling apart.

Then at the end, she pulled out a book from the bottom and sat on the machine as it ran, and read.

Big fancy letters in block type, "The Code Napoleon".

Speaking as a history major, that is an extremely tedious book. I know about The Napoleonic Code, it's officially the Civil Code of the French, established during the French Consulate in 1804, and is still in force, although frequently amended. It was drafted by a commission of four eminent jurists and entered into force on March 21, 1804.

So yes, this girl must be on some good shit to read that for fun. Call her a manic pixie dream girl or whatever, but she doesn't seem to care all that much. She's not like other girls. She probably prides herself on it too.

The closer I look at her, the more I learn.
She smokes the cheapest cigarettes she can.
So, she's not living off of daddy's trust fund.

Repeatedly bleached hair (fried is a better word for the state of it), which calls for the confidence to pull off any colour.
I can probably guess the name of the box dye from Walmart. Her darker roots peak through from her scalp (ignore the symbolic foreshadowing here).
And there are split ends galore, like a rope fraying at the ends.

A "consistency kills" kinda person.

Ratty tan coat. A little big. Probably was her mother's in the 70's.
She was definitely on molly while pregnant.

No jewelry, because she's not wealthy or frilly enough for that.
And scuffed docs for the cherry on top. The works.

Her presence is that of TV static, always changing, restless, and scared to get too attached to anything. Trust me, I know the type.

We all know comparison destroys personality, but she takes the cake for individuality.

She probably refuses attachment.
Detachment sounds edgier.
But a double-edged sword it is.

She looks broken and jaded.
Which is probably why I think she's beautiful.

I've always loved broken things, fixing them and saving them makes me feel better about myself.
My raging savior's complex always gets the better of me.

I've always loved puzzles and mysteries.
I despise dumb things, they don't challenge me, and they don't make me think. And I don't feel smart when the task is completed. This is why probably why I love space. It's the biggest mystery and marvel in the known world. And it's a challenge.

Same with history. I enjoy finding the patterns and establishing the connections and causations of all the events we know about. I love to weave the web of mankind's actions. It makes me feel powerful and steady. To be secure in my knowledge and my place in the world is comfort. I like to be comfortable (this is probably why I only own one sweatshirt too). I'm getting my doctorate in both history and astrometrics.

But back to her, she's pretty in an understated way.
You don't see it right away, but you don't have to search her face for it either. My head might be stuck in the clouds, but her presence shines through like the sun.

She has a light dusting of freckles along her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. I would like to count them (they look like my beloved constellations).

There is a cigarette stain between her middle and forefinger. I love that word for some reason (forefinger, forefinger, forefinger).
The nicotine has made its mark.

I used to smoke too (a nasty habit I picked up during my freshman year at univ). That is, till I had an asthma attack, a remnant of my black cloud of a childhood.
The smell reminds me of those days filled with naïve tears and iron sharpening iron in our rainy city of New York.

Nostalgia is a great waste of time.

She's got these piercing eyes. A subtle, yet pleasing green. Not the striking emerald we usually think of, but easy to get lost in all the same. They are wide and stare at her book with intelligence. They are not wide with innocence. She appears to know what it feels like to lose that.

She has the look of someone who doesn't care. Someone who probably has a menial job but longs for a life that leaves a mark. Yes, that type.
In reality, I bet she cares a lot.
If she doesn't then I'll care for her.

Those green eyes of hers look up from the book. Finally. I've been waiting for that.
She had felt my gaze most definitely.
How long had I been staring?

(I always stare at things that interest me)

Her face contorts, a question brewing behind those eyes.
She's not that far away from me. She doesn't have to yell, but she does (she's a New Yorker).

"Hey lady, what the fuck are you looking at? Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer."

It's a dumb and elementary thing to say, but I think it adds to her charm (says the hypocrite).

I look down, mumble a sorry and study the floor.
Bravery and confidence are not traits that I have.

From the corner of my eye, she falters.
Her features soften and a smile plays in my mind.

It's promising, as this forced interaction is what I was looking for.

She clambers down from the machine (Grace is not her name) and walks over to me as if approaching a wounded animal. Cautious.

I don't want her pity, but I do want to talk to her.

"Hey, I'm sorry about that. You just caught me off guard. It's rude to stare."

Yes, I know it was rude. But I can't help it.
My mother used to smack me for it, but I can't help but stare sometimes. She's so pretty.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

We stared at each other, neither being able to find the words that we needed to articulate what we were thinking. She cleared her throat.

"You're pretty."

I blurted it out, I couldn't stop myself.
I sounded like a child.

She froze.

"You're pretty too."

We smiled at each other. I like her smile.
It's a toothy and rare instance that doesn't happen anywhere near so often as I'd like it to.
I want to make her smile every day.

She steps back and moves to go.
I don't want her to, but I let her go anyways.

Softly I say, "Bye."

She turns and smiles again over her shoulder.

I quickly gather my things and now dry laundry, leaving as soon as I can. It was embarrassing, the way I was caught staring like a kid with their hand in a cookie jar. But, I don't think she cared all that much after.

I mean, she did smile after all.

NOTES
I know Emma Stone's naturally blonde, I just want to pretend she's originally a redhead and hates it because it reminds her of her past. So the continuous bleaching for the blank canvas that blonde is + her consistency is death attitude = a detail that scratches my brain the right way. Also, I know the narrator kinda sounds like Joe from YOU and in true stalker fashion immediately becomes obsessed with Eddie, but that's her inner monologue and it's honestly not that far off from what mine sounds like sometimes (oops).
Anyways I hope you liked this aka the longest fucking chapter I've ever written (don't expect it ever again). Tell me what you think !!