Laurie stood under the same streetlight, in a black mesh t-shirt under a thin black jacket this time, but with the same painted-on jeans.
I shouldn't have known his name. I wouldn't have, if I hadn't stood here, leaning against the wall of the alley and scowling in his direction, for three nights running.
It was also the third night period since I'd put him to bed in his shitty studio and vowed to forget all about him — so obviously the forgetting him thing had gone fucking super.
On the first night I'd stalked him, one of his colleagues had sashayed by on his way to his spot half a block down and greeted Laurie by name.
Knowing his name had made it twice as hard to watch as he got into three different cars throughout a couple of hours, coming back a little less bright every time.
