I'm at the mall, sitting on a bench, with a notebook on my lap, and I'm scribbling out random dribbles and drabbles of thought. They're melting together, but not making sense, and the sketches of nothing in the corners bordering it are starting to worry me.
I don't notice the first time she says hey, but the second time catches my attention. I almost thank her for it, but she would never have understood why.
She asks what I'm drawing. I tell her I'm not, I'm writing. She laughs, and asks what I'm writing. I look at the words and turn the pages back, and realize that it's not my style of writing. It's not even my handwriting.
But my hand wrote it.
I just tell her I'm not sure, that I was writing out thoughts, and they rarely come out clearly. She smiles and agrees before asking if she can join me. I say yes, and scoot over on the bench.
She sits next to me and pulls out a notebook. She flips through pages of drawings before she comes to a blank one, and sets her pencil to the paper. She