Lies and make believe.

"Say…have you seen the blues man?"

 It came out more as a pondering thought, similar to asking me if I smoked. I could feel him rooting around his pockets for a lighter. 

I hesitate, not sure if I wanted to engage in street philosophy. "Yes." I reply, not used to hearing the confidence soar in my voice.

"Where didya see ‘em, by chance?" His query was genuine.  My bottom was grazing the crumb laden cushion of the Yaris, while my mind was yearning for the dialogue.

"Oh, you know," I nonchalantly drawl, "everywhere. He’s all around us." Cue warm smile. 5…4…3…2... I calculate, waiting for the pitch. No one just has conversations just because, right?

"What’s your name?" His eyes, quite intensely cued on my reaction, were soft and genuine. 

"Lola."

 Lola? Was that all I had? Of all the names I fantasize about, that was my best, fake name? As I was silently cursing lack of imagination in name choice, my new hobo friend threw out another inquiry.  

"Lola, have you evah been to Atlanah, Georgia?"

" Hmmmm," as dreamily as I could dredge, "nah, I haven’t. But I’m gonna." 

That seemed to please him.