She always chooses rock and I always choose paper. I explained this to her as we walked up the stairs to the Cambie bridge and then I saw you with your brown raincoat. You were walking with a red haired women and I couldn’t see your eyes behind your dark glasses. I wondered if you had seen me and I worried that you were stuck.

The mistake he keeps making, over and over again: assuming that other people are just like him (with tragic, tragic, interesting, tragic) results.

He swept his hand through his long greasy hair and stared out the rain splashed window. “If something interests you, see where it runs. That is all, nothing more.”