Day 11 -- 9/7/10

30 feet below, the same woman stood, watching me. Her clumsy attempt at hiding was not only pitiful, but rather distracting.

Doesn't this lady have something else she should be doing? Going to dinner? A movie? Fucking her boyfriend? Or girlfriend? Hell, she could be out fucking a goat, and I wouldn't care. But she's not, so I do. 

Looking up from my sketch, I gazed down at her failure attempt at hiding. 
"Are you planning to stand there all night, or are you going to say something?"

Shit, he saw me.

She seriously thought I couldn't see her? It is possible that she lives in a complete world of illusions?

"What gave it away?" her creamy voice questioned.


"Well, for starts your shoes are the color of a hooker's lipstick, your not miss quiet, nor did you cover your entire body with that bush, which appears to be poison oak.”

FUCK.

"I knew that." She snapped.

It's funny how someone's physical voice can be so different from there inner voice. I mean, Miss Morgan's physical voice is a creamy substance, that swirls about the air, and tries (any you get the feeling that it more often then not) seduce you, while her inner voice is gruff, and slightly smoky, like the feeling you get when you stand slightly too close to a campfire for too long.

"Alright then. So, are you just creepy in general or so, or do you have something you would like to say.

This kid is demanding.