He wondered if she was the simple machine type or the complex machine type.

Watching her run the cash register, fill the grocery bags, impatiently blow her thick brown bangs out of her face, he wondered if she was the type to see "grungy-haired punk buying groceries" or even "jobless punk buying groceries," or, if she was the particularly assuming simple machine type, she might see "jobless punk buying groceries that will go home to play his stupid guitar with his stupid friends that are just like him--going nowhere and doing nothing".

Or maybe she was the complex machine type, the one that said "I wonder" when she started making guesses at what his life was like. Maybe she said "I wonder if he writes songs about unrequited love, or journal-like songs, or philosophical songs with shakespeare sprinkled on for garnish, or energetic, revolutionary punk songs", or, " I wonder if he butters his toast with a spoon sometimes or has to use a butterknife, always, no matter what."

"Hi," he said to her as she checked out his last item, a box of band-aids.

"Hey," she said politely, and "cash, check, credit, or debit?"

"Cash," he said, handing her a twenty. "Just out of curiosity... what do you think I do? As a living, I mean."

She gave him an odd look. "Well, I guess I figured you didn't have a job, since your groceries are mostly basic necessities. You might play guitar, since you've got a pick sticking out of your pocket."

He picked up the bags and said, "Cool. See ya." Well. Just another simple-machine type. A bold simple machine type, though.

---

That night when she got home she tossed her keys onto the table, liking the angle they made with the edge of the table when they landed, and the overall careless tone they gave off.

 A million poems had popped into her head when that guy asked her what she thought he did for a living. Half a million story ideas also popped into her head, but when she tried to write them down, she kept re-writing and re-writing and never being satisfied. She sat down at her piano and tried to write a song about it, but she couldn't make it sound the way she wanted. She tried to draw a picture, but it didn't capture the moment enough and already his face was fading away into her memory.

But she could still feel him there inside her mind, a youth thinking he's deeper than the world (maybe he is in a way), a musician trapped inside a jobless-punk's shell, an artist inside a coat of pretenses. Someone who thinks he can tell all about people just by looking at them, a simple type that refuseses to admit it.

Guitar pick sticking out of his pocket.

She had meant to ask him if he'd ever used a spoon to butter his toast, but she was too afraid that he'd be what she was thought he was to ask.

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