San Antonio Avenue.

I was shit drunk, coming back from god knows where, stumbling down the street. My breath was whiskey, and from under it a steady stream of whispered obscenities; the madness talking to oneself on a drunken walk home. It was a street with alot of trees and I was about ready to pass out cold in someone's leafy gutter when I saw her standing on the opposite side of the street. It was at least three o'clock in the morning. little black dress. just standing there. The woman we had been talking about all night. She must have been crying, but at the time I didn't realize and started across the street like a filthy Don Juan. She turned her head to find me staggering towards her, pulling up my pants and buttoning my shirt. I was looking my belligerent best. She was afraid, she saw a disgusting monster dragging his feet from out of the darkness with club in hand, come to break her and rape her and everything else precious right there on the street. I was pretty sure that wasn't me. I stopped halfway, there were no cars for miles. for hours. I straightened my shirt again. Ran fingers through my hair. She just kept staring at my with those dynasty green eyes,
silence cast shadows on her cheekbones,
the sharp cold shined down her ankles,
she didn't run away.
I swayed, standing on top of a manhole.

"You know everyone thinks you're the most beautiful woman in town right?"

More swaying. my vision was too far gone to see her reaction. After a few seconds she replied,

"Who are you?"

A fatal blow. I don't know what I had expected her to say, but with that I started to realize the madness of the situation, the horror movie terror she must be fighting. What the fuck was I doing? What else was she supposed to say? You creepy disgusting man, get out of here!

"I'm nobody. I'm drunk. I'm sorry"

I caught one last shameful glance at those perfect legs and turned around, walking back where I'd come from. Stupid me. Whatever. I'll fall asleep in a bed somewhere and in the morning it won't have happened. I was already forgetting about it, walking with my eyes half closed my thoughts spinning numbly. I heard little patter footsteps behind me and I didn't believe in them.

"But really, I'm not"

I turned around to look at her. Goddamn she was perfect. None of my friends would believe this in the morning. Her voice was soft and high and it reminded me of how much I'd failed, how much life wasted.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I said I'm not really beautiful. Look"

She held out a cheap little photo album with a flower print on the front. Yellow flowers on a baby blue background. I flipped it open and started thumbing through the pages; they were all pictures of her. Pictures of her caught in a grimace as she popped pimples on her face. Pictures of her bent over awkwardly, scratching her knee. Pictures of her wincing as she takes a shit (Just like the rest of us). The book was full of these goddamn things. Every time I turned the page another image of beauty contorted, of beauty smashed, of beauty shooting milk out her nose as she laughed.

"See?"

I guess I did see. She looked absolutely terrible in every one of those pictures. I closed the back cover of the book and handed it back to her, not exactly sure what to say next. My head was dizzy with the booze, my elbows tight from the cold.

"So, do you want to go out for dinner sometime?"

I saw her off and on for a few weeks, mostly nights filled with too much wine and empty sex. We never fell in love and I was almost happier that way.