She told me to shut up as if it were one word and laughed afterward at how it sounded.
So, I asked her to stick her hands into the pockets of her skinny jeans and look down. When she looked back up her hair tickled her nose. The photograph came out well but she didn't like it. We had an agreement and it was deleted off the camera without argument. I tried again.
I asked her to stand in a doorway and pretend to be an analogue clock. She chose her left arm to be the hour hand and her right arm to be the minute hand.
“What time do you get home from work?” Click.
“If you were broken, what time would you read?” Click.
“And what time were you born?”
Ever since I was little I would fantasise about moments like this; living in a gigantic city with bourgeois youth. I didn't have any words for it then however but I knew they would dress and smell like the cover of magazines.
Mostly I found myself standing by one of the speakers when a song I liked came on, turning inward until I could only hear what I wanted. I felt twice my age and wondered if I could live to see fifty without dying first.
I told her this while fantasising about kissing her.
I should have just turned around like she did and walk out onto the street. Taxis are yellow here and ubiquitous like Jesus. They don't stop for just anyone either.