Unfinished Works: Doors
I have this friend. She's 20-something, with black hair and green eyes. Pretty, but not gorgeous. We're sitting at a little out-of-the-way coffee shop in downtown L.A., and she's reading a newspaper while I'm typing on my laptop. She's at about page six when she stops suddenly, the back-and-forth of her eyes reading the text frozen on one singular point of interest on the page. Everything about her stops, for a moment, every little tic or idle movement. Her brows furrow, her expression showing she's concerned. She leans in close to the page, squinting, as if she's trying to make out some tiny detail.
"Hey, what's up?" I ask, looking over