ArtFlow

The bar was still loud inside but she'd taken herself outside, which he respected immediately. Shoes off, feet on the chair across from her, book open on the table next to a glass of something red. She wasn't waiting for anyone. She wasn't checking her phone. She was just reading, in the middle of the night, on Rothschild, like it was the most natural thing.
He almost kept walking. He was on his way somewhere, or had been an hour ago before the somewhere stopped mattering. He slowed down. She didn't look up.
He asked what she was reading. She looked up then — not annoyed, just assessing. She told him. He'd read it. She looked slightly surprised and slightly less like she wanted him to leave, so he asked if he could sit and she said she wasn't stopping him, which wasn't yes but wasn't no.
They talked about the book first, then about the city, then about the strange specific loneliness of being surrounded by people all the time. She was direct in a way he wasn't used to — no softening, no performance. She said what she thought and waited to see what he did with it.
At 4AM she put her shoes back on and said she had to go. He asked if he could see her again. She thought about it for a moment — actually thought about it, which he appreciated. Then she gave him her number and walked away without looking back.
He stood there on Rothschild at 4AM feeling like something had just started.