He wanted to take care of her, to take her home with him and put her up for the night. Her dirty-blonde hair was streaked a washy grey now; it was long and stringy like he imagined Joni Mitchell's might be. She walked by him at the green café table. She wore old flared jeans, and was holding a lit cigarette by her cheek, coughing. Large round sunglasses covered half her face. He said nothing, turning casually. Lifting his gaze towards the dimming sky he watched a white-winged Osprey carry away a large orange Koi. He sipped his red wine, and wondered if her eyes were brown like dry earth or blue like the sky.

 
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