She played with her long, hazelnut-tinted wavy hair as she wrote - hair like the kind I pushed off my own forehead as I sipped my mocha. It seemed so natural, sitting here in this isolated run-down Turkish joint on the corner of Seneca and 2nd St, with this woman in her late 40s without betraying her years; yet so unnatural was the nature of the invisible link between us: a link that wasn't what it should be, and definitely was what it never should've been. I wasn't in love; no, I was hungry... Hungry for the intimacy of the unspoken witching hours of the night that we shared, drowning ourselves in guilty gratification. We never attempted to justify ourselves. For me, she was only a woman that I had just met two months ago for the first time, not the cause of my existence and the scar of my single father's life. We were one, by DNA, and by the act of inseparation that unified us in an escapist attempt to defy all reason.
I looked at her hands as they furiously filled up the paper. She bites her nails, I mused to myself. I definitely got that from her.