She came in wearing an apron. She had brown hair that stood on end and then fell flat down the side of her face in other places, like the side of her face. Just so. And freckles. She smiled at him. She was a girl.

He looked around the empty bar, eyed all the empty tables and the un-taken seats grinning at him through their ill-fitted legs and arms, all the emptiness of the room. She looked around, as if she couldn't decide where to sit.
 
She was wearing a tray, and the tray combined with the apron gave her the air of a waitress. There was no one to wait upon, though, and he hadn't ordered anything but his drink. The beer, now lukewarm in the greasy glass pressed between the sweaty palms of his hands. The beer he never really intended to drink, but was using as an excuse to be able to sit here just a while longer. Before she came in.

There was a bowl on the tray, and a spoon arranged on a napkin beside it. An empty glass sat next to an elegant water bottle.

He built a little cottage out of cards with room enough for four squirrels and some imaginary nuts, and all the while she was standing there, looking like a waitress but waiting on no one, looking for a place to sit in an empty room.

Finally she sat down, on the one chair that he'd hoped hadn't looked inviting.
She quickly moved a hand through all that hair standing on end and falling down the side of her face, and he saw it come to life. And then he saw it settle back.

She smiled at him, all freckles and teeth, and asked him if she could sit with him for a while, to eat her soup. 'All the other seats are taken', she said as if this were really the case, 'and I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't necessary, of course.'

Of course, he wanted to say. He wanted to frown at her, and tell her that the imaginary nuts were moving out of the cottage of cards as they spoke, and that the squirrels would famish and die and start to reek of decay soon enough.

'Yes', he said in stead, and he didn't know if he'd meant to say 'Yes, all the other seats are taken' or 'Yes, you can sit here' or, quite possibly, 'Yes, it bothers me that you're sitting here when there so much room all around us'.

She looked a little like the end of the world, all edges ships would sail off of, all siren calls and mystic lights. As she gently sipped from her soup, she looked at him and twinkled. He refused to twinkle back. Outside, people were walking through the rain, wearing warm underwear and thinking gloomy thoughts about their miserable unfulfilling jobs, their careworn spouses, their general lack of interest in many things and few in particular and the failure that was their life. He envied them. They, after all, were not obliged te move out the squirrels from their card constructions to spoon-feed them liveliness and cheer, for want of imaginary nuts.

She pretended not to notice this, and talked as if the bar was full, and this was the most crowded hour - shouting a little, and pronouncing each word with the greatest care.

'I am waiting', she said, while she was obviously not doing anything of the sort. She gestured at his cards. 'What are you doing?'
'I' he replied, in a dignified sort of manner, 'am changing the world.'
She laughed at him, a kind little laugh, clearly mocking him. Strangely enough, he didn't feel particularly angry.

'I play songs', he told her, as if she really was interested and not merely insane, 'and when people hear those things, they'll start thinking. They'll stop believing the nonsense they believe now. That's what I'm changing.'
'What nonsense?' she asked. Her hair came alive again. He wondered why she touched it so. Was it particularly soft? Or did it itch?

He itched but knew not where. Perhaps he should ask her? Perhaps she could guess where to scratch, just by watching him. Insane people often have the brightest ideas. Unrestricted thinking.

'You know...' he said.
'No', she replied, seriously, 'I don't. I more than likely can't, because I'll believe them myself, and if I believe them I won't think them nonsense.'
That made sense, he was surprised to note.

'Well... God. Love. Progress. Science. Fixed things. Truth, beauty, hope... Nonsense.'
'My problem with cynics is that they're cowards wearing brave masks', she said. He felt a little uneasy - was he a cynic? He wasn't sure. 'It's a giant leap up to the big ideas. You can easily miss, not jump high enough, and come crashing down. Break a foot. Crush your leg. Cease to move altogether. One such disappointment is enough to leave you paralyzed, I suppose.

Cynics are just extra careful, aren't they? Because they're afraid to loose all feeling in their balls. They fear they won't be able to move forward again, if they'd fall. So they don't move forward. They stay put, not believing.'

'It's brave to be foolish?' he asked, wondering why he sounded like he believed it.
'Of course it is!' she cried, smiling and looking appalled all at once. 'Fools take risks. They don't think about the consequences. So the chance that the consequences won't be worth the risks, merely grow the more foolish someone becomes.'
'That's not being brave', he said, 'that's stupidity.'

'Not taking risks is stupid', she said. She looked around, at all the empty chairs and tables, then said: 'I took a risk.'

He just looked at her, uncomprehending.
'I sat with you', she explained, but now she was no longer making sense. She smiled at him, still more teeth and freckles, and whispered: 'Will you come home with me? I can feed you.'
He looked at her empty bowl of soup and frowned.

'Don't you think, if I were hungry, I would have ordered food instead of beer?' he asked her. She bit her lip.
'I can lessen your thirst', she said, looking at his beer. He tried not to wonder if perhaps she was in fact as insane as he'd thought. She seemed to get worried, chewing the inside of her bottom lip now.

'I can visit you in the hour of your despair', she said, and he looked at her - for the first time looked at her - and saw she was warm and kind and very real.
'You have already done that', he said, and was surprised to realize it was true. She smiled. He grinned, and knew it didn't suit his face. It was made to frown, to snarl, to draw inward. If she noticed, she was kind about it, because her smile only widened on seeing his cramped attempts at pleasantness.

'You must come with me', she said. He asked her why. She frowned slightly and muttered: 'I cannot marry you if you won't come home with me first.'

Later that evening he would reflect that it hadn't made much sense to begin with. When he had his hands in her hair, making it come alive just so, and she clothed him and tended his wounds.