She waits, that's what she does. What she does on the days when she doesn't open the parlor, what she does when there's nothing to do but wait. The watiers here know her, and she always sits in the same booth, the one with only one bench and two walls of window. She watches the Fall, it's people, go by like a river, and she waits, and what she is waiting for is not always clear. Sometimes, she doodles in a notebook, ideas for inking, random words, the same name over, over, over like a prayer. Sometimes, she reads, paperback novels, history books, gossip magazines in French and Spanish and Arabic. Today, she does nothing at all. She sits in her booth, and she stares out of the window opposite her, and she thinks that, in a million different places different from and yet exactly like this one, a million women who is alike and different, with their hair knotted back or spiked or brushed just-so are also sitting. She wonders if, by chance, any of them woke up that morning, and decided to put on the slashed apart Cure t-shirt that is wearing over a black bra, blue jeans. She wonders if any of these parallel women even own this t-shirt; how defining was that concert, back when she was young? How much did Robert Smith define her as who she was?
Nimue Dante Finch sips her ice water, the Indian glass edged in faded gilt, and she thinks about these things.
And she waits.