September 10, 2002:
I saw her, I think, inside a Mexican restaurant I knew she would love.
Hair long, not yet gray. Thin glasses, maybe. Don't remember. Against a wall under photos of actresses and bullfighters.
Lonely, my god. A sad and bitter woman with an edge of meanness. Don't come near, she bites. Contrasted by vibrance in all directions, the festive interior of a cheerful space, so loud with color it's like the inside of a piñata.
Nervous. Waited outside for her to finish. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was. Not sure which possibility frightened me more.
It would be good to say hello.
She crossed the street, walked alone into a movie theater. Tired-looking. A stoop to her shoulders that didn't used to be there, as if carrying unseen weight. Eyes to the sidewalk, walking slowly. Little green daypack.
Didn't talk to her. Wasn't sure. Was afraid.
How sad that I'm not sure I'd recognize her.