She sat beside him. His eyes glued to his hands. He was concentrating on rolling his cigarette. Why are you so obsessed by it if you do this literally every ten minutes, you should know it off by heart.. she thought.. look at me. He placed one hand on her right thigh while he bobbed along to the gentle guitar sounds of Leonard Cohen’s Chelsea Hotel playing in the background. She didn’t want to be fed up with his routines, well they weren’t really routines because everyday he was in a new city but the routine in every city was the same.
The songs playing in the background seemed pretty accurate to the situation they were living. He was loved by many, he was known by many, he never called himself famous but she knew very well deep down that all this drama played on his mind constantly. Was he actually here? Was he sitting beside her making out to the music and cigarettes? Was he really sitting beside her playing with her hair? Someone so completely perfect for so many but yet so disheveled in many ways to her.