You were sitting on the top step. I was prowling around for strange or interesting-looking people for my photojournalism project, “Portraits of Strangers.” I zeroed in on you because, well. Look at what you’re wearing. Let’s be real.
I began speaking to you in Italian asking you if I could take your picture. “I’m English,” you said in that darling accent. “Ergh, uh. Awesome,” I replied. You said I could take your picture as long as you could smoke a cigarette, and you proceeded to light one up right then and there.
Despite your lack of regard for the health of my lungs, obviously we’re soulmates. I mean, you’re an art history major? I’m a journalism major! We can graduate and laugh at all those idiots with steady income in a few years, right? I’m even minoring in English nowadays, so not only am I committed to the mother-country in some way, I’m also clearly committed to this starving-artist thing your eclectic clothes and poor posture seem to suggest you’re “into!” We can sit on steps and be pensive together, maybe occasionally scoff at the rubbish walking by. See that? I’m adapting to your culture already.
Speaking of your “culture,” I’m so down with Sunday Roasts, but I think you might want to consider swapping out tea for coffee. Oh bloody hell that was SUCH an American thing to say, I’m sorry. Don’t let this affect our relationship! I bet you shop at Camden Market and go to tiny shows and listen to all those British bands I’ll hear about three months after you think they’ve gone “mainstream.” Do you get mad when people don’t stay to the side on the escalator, and when the queue isn’t orderly? Yeah dude, I totally hate that too.
If you see this message, please give me a call. Actually, don’t. It’s really expensive unless you call my Student Cells Nokia, and I havent turned that thing on in weeks. So I guess it’s up to fate to reunite us.