I noticed her worn and tattered low-top Chuck Taylor's first, once black now the color of faded asphalt. I made my way up the freckly legs and cut-off jeans, past the Guns 'N' Roses t-shirt to short blond hair and the blue eyes. She had on a pair of Buddy Holly glasses.
"Hi," she said.
"Yo."
"My name's Blue Jay Whiskers," she said with the beginnings of a smile.
"Seriously?"
"I didn't pick it," she replied before she cracked the top on her beer.
"No body around here does."
She took a big swig and then offered me a sip, silent like.
"You're new here, huh?"
"F.O.B. --I'm sorry didn't get your--"
"Milo, Milo Slouch," I interjected a second before she snorted in response.
"Beer just went up my nose."
"I'm sorry," I offered, still hazed.
"Not your fault, Milo."
Beat.
"I like your shirt."
"I like you."