She sits comfortably in the bamboo chair which she assumes the owner might have stole it from somewhere, enjoying the December’s midnight breeze kissing her cheeks. She takes a glimpse from the corner of her eye, watches him awkwardly changing his position. She doesn’t bother. She chooses to imagine about the Bigfoot who lives up on the hill across them.
He sits there, trying to get comfortable. It’s a typical windy night in December but he can feel heat starts spreading throughout his skin. It must be all the whiskey he just drank, he assumes. He silently watches her gazing up the hill. She sits so calmly still he swears he thought she is meditating, right there on that very bamboo chair. What’s that look in her eyes? Boredom? Grief? Should I say something? Should I start with a joke? Oh she probably doesn’t even know I’m alive. Or does she? But she’s totally spaced out. He babbles to himself, contemplating whether or not he should start a conversation, squeezing his tipsy brain for an opening line.
