She was there again that night waiting for the bus with other ten or fifteen people. She was staring at the same direction of the street as all the other nights, without moving or giving signals of reaction. She was dressed the same; a canary-coloured t-shirt, tight jeans and black shoes.

He could not resist this time. I’ve got to talk to her, he thought.

He went up to her slowly and casually to avoid upsetting those thoughtful eyes which seemed lost in the night’s freezing cold. There was something inexplicable about this woman that attracted him.

This is a story about Donna the Lumberjack. I call her that, not because she felled trees for a living. Hardly. She was a U.S. postal letter carrier. “Lumberjack” was just the word that popped into my head the first time I saw her. Perhaps it was her long stride or the cleft of her chin, or maybe the breadth of her shoulders – wide enough to humble a huddle of NFL veterans. I suppose I could have called her “Donna the Linebacker,” or “Donna the Longshoreman,” but “Lumberjack” just seemed to fit and that’s how I’ve referred to her ever after.

‘Morning’..’ morning’ l replied battling through the wind and rain of this dreary brighton street, another day on my way to work, another day of the same old routine. l arrived at work and sat down.

I grabbed a coffee and wished away the next few hours until my lunch break.

Sure enough 12pm came around and l grabbed my coat and headed out the door,

I headed straight for ‘the vinyl tap’ a great used record store that l frequented almost every luchtime and spent most of my wages in there.

This is a story about Aaron. Aaron was – and probably still is - perfectly brilliant. He's written a lot of books, is quoted widely and was, many years back, a finalist for a MacArthur Grant. Aaron also was - and probably still is - a perfect asshole. Brilliance and assholeness do seem apt bedfellows for a lot of people. None hold a candle to Aaron's particularly inspired synthesis of the two traits.