The girl with the white hair

Walking past the local electronics monolith I spotted her.
... Stumbled upon her was more like it.

No, stumbled past her would be the truth.

I had to look again to confirm what I saw.

She sat there, white hair dimming out all other color in sight.  Black frames suspended before ice-blue irises.  
I can't even recall the time of day.  The chairs were green, I remember that.

Did my step falter because she was surrounded by her male friends.  Or, was I taken aback by her.  Knowing me, it was probably... Well...
I wanted to see again.  Luckily I was new to the area, there was no harm in walking towards the corner, looking around, feigning disinterest, and turning around.

So I walked back past them.

Yup.  She was really pretty.  

"Oh!  Ask her about her hair, you like white hair."  I thought during a brief moment of comfort.  Ha, as if I would do that.  Best lock your sights elsewhere and continue forward.

The air was warm and still.

In the coming weeks we would intersect each other within that tiny block of vendors.  I'd try not to look.  Though, I would pay a sliver of attention after our backs faced one another.

Through repetition I conjured that she worked not only as a dealer of liquid caffeine, she was involved with the cosmetology industry.

Sometimes I feel like a creep.

"How many times must you pass her by before talking to her?"

When did I develop a penchant for self-inflicted passive-aggressiveness?  No matter.  I'd push myself a bit.

Many failed attempts later, I would find myself passing her again.  This time, her hair augmented.  A length of green and yellow synthetic extension hung from her snowy locks.

I exclaimed "The Green looks good."  Did I stammer?
She spoke back, with a turn and began walking backwards.  I did the same.  

There was a quick mention of extensions to which I remarked that I could tell.  I just blurted it out nervously, really.  Should I have been surprised that she returned my comment?  

I was just stuck in admiration.  I'm sure of it.

Days fell from the calendar.

Finishing work, I pushed forward into the rainy night.  Rounding the corner I find, none other than the white haired girl, leaving the beauty parlor.  She quickly ducked into the french cafe next door.

This became a moment in which my actions superseded my thoughts. My mouth spoke before I could tell it what I wanted to say.

We met.

I was relieved to have that done with.  The thought alone of such interaction is a bit unnerving.  I suppose infatuation has it's tolls.

Now, running into her was met with brief conversation.  Nothing substantial, ever.  Just the kind of talk that I'm not good at.  Chit-chat.  Words strung together in such a way that there is little effort in replies.  Notions, comments, reflections, a penny a piece.

Through those exchanges we were able to find time for a prolonged visit.  Through that I was able to arrange in stealing a few moments of her time.  

We sat down, the dull roar of the other dining guests permeated the air.  What followed was nothing out of the ordinary.  A bit of introspection, laughter, anecdotes, explanations, and disclaimers.  The things people talk about upon their first moments around one another.

The day prior was her day off.  That was a topic of brief discussion.  She mentioned that they perused the city and read in the park.

"His name is Johnny." She said.
"Oh." I replied.