I found her with her back turned towards me. The red lights of the stage made her skin glow like a lava lamp in a dark room. When I came around a second time she was outside sitting on a black satin couch with her right leg crossed over her left. She looked at me with her lips pursed like her drink was too sweet. When she spoke, the words came out like a phonograph, soft yet firm and with character. “I’m a cartographer” she said to me with a tone like I didn’t know what that was. “I don’t like your latitude” I tried to joke but she didn’t laugh. There are some nights in Hollywood where you can find a place with live music that resembles something with a soul. We moved over the black and white keys of the piano and tapped our feet with the percussion. She had long black curls that bounced when she moved. Her glasses looked like they were relics from high school, but they still worked, so she kept them. The black dress she wore told me she had work tomorrow. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense of the word. She had situational beauty. The minute hand raced around my watch and as she departed I reached my hand out only to grasp hot air and a few notes from the band.
This is fiction but I did actually meet a girl one time who told me she was a cartographer.