Routine

She’s out there.

He’s out there.

They sit at restaurants, have lonely meals, read magazines while having a temaki for dinner.
They ask for diet coke with ice, no lime please. They lick the yogurt lid. Sleep with old t-shirts. They hate wearing socks to bed, unless it’s too cold not to wear them.

They like going to the movies by themselves. Hate watching plays. Never care for television. Like going to small gigs and listening to music with their eyes closed.

They love, absolutely love traveling. Despise being tourists – they call themselves “travelers”. They dream of going to Japan, Botswana, Pensacola. Just because they like the name. Pensacola.

They write since they were kids, diaries, stories, poems, lyrics. Never show anyone. But they have blogs and tumblrs and twitters and flickrs and blips and memes. They like to watch videos on vimeo, listen to new bands on myspace and read about technology and education and astrology and random wikipedia stuff. They love their friend’s shared items in google reader.

They both think things used to have a better design in the past and fantasize about being born in Paris in the 19th century or maybe being teenagers in London in the 60s. Or painters from the 15th century.

They both have been in way too many serious relationships and like being sincere about their feelings and calling when they want to call and not calling when they don’t want to. They enjoy witty sms exchange and quotable gtalk chats. Unexpected e-mails are the favourite ones.

Once she was coming back from a party and stopped at MacDonald’s, 4am, to buy some ice-cream.

He was sitting there with some friends, having a Cheddar McMelt.

That was the only opportunity they ever had to meet each other. She even glanced at him, at his cute round glasses and messy hair and thought he was kinda attractive. But then she left. He didn’t even see her. They were never in the same spot again.