She was a small, thick girl. She had vague brown hair, and vague brown eyes, and her hair was bobbed just above her shoulders. Because she voluteered her time teaching handicapped children how to swim, her lips were always painfully chapped. Not just for her, but for whomever hapened to be kissing her. She was the singer in a bland, 80's pop band that played for nothing at the local clubs.

Once, at a party, a woman slipped Patrick her number and begged him to call her. She cried real tears and said, voice cracking "don't say you're gonna call me, and not call me, please, promise me you'll call me". When Patrick was 22ish, he was still very romantic and very naive, and felt compelled to fulfill the promise, whether extracted by tears or not.

So, later that week, Patrick called her, as promised. She suggested that they go to pitcher night at a club where many of their friends also went. Everywhere they went, she clasped his hand, and repeated over and over "I can't believe I'm here with you, I can't believe it" as if she had won the dating lottory. When they first got to the club, patrick pulled up two chairs and sat in
one of them. Much to his surprise, she sat in the same chair.