Thursday, July 17, 2008

I may be a begger and you may be the queen.

She remembers the last time she saw you, before you left, and the kisses you both kept stealing from each other's mouths. She is content in thinking you really did go inside as she pedaled away, and that you did not step back outside after she believed you gone, to watch her go, instead.

Riding, she thinks about wanting to have met you under more magical circumstances. Wanting to have met you with dirt and grit under her nails, partaking in creativity of her own accord, not turning out assignments based on prompts. (Although, it is a truth the understands, that she works better this way; having a direction, and directives, and a deadline makes her work.) She is terrible at giving herself time to make things. The only things she has made recently, albeit really pretty, were the disc jackets to mix CD's for the various boys that thrust themselves into her life. She would never do this for you. It would make her feel juvenile, and she's already so young.

She pictures it, though, this chance encounter that has never occurred, and will not ever occur. You are in the White Hen Pantry, at 2 AM, and you are buying ice cream. She knows you would be talking to the clerk, whose name she would not at the time know, and would later not remember. She has been in her room, her corner, painting by the wrong numbers with the paints, and with her fingers. She got the sudden and uncontrollable desire for a Snicker's Ice Cream Bar, a feeling that often overtakes her but that she rarely acts upon. This is different, though. She is wearing the raggedy torn up jeans that her old friends wrote on, and orange converse. Her shirt doesn't matter, she didn't have a lot of special shirts, at the time. She would have been chronologically younger, but in her head, for the sake of this meeting, only you are younger, and she is the same age, although it is years and years and years ago. She takes her CD player, with some music that will undoubtedly find itself too loud to go from the headphones to her ears without escaping into the cool night. Her fingertips are caked in earth tone acrylic paints. She walks in the door, and smiles politely, because she has not seen you before, and does not know you yet. She gets her Snicker's Ice Cream Bar, and goes toward the counter. You are laughing and talking to the clerk. Her wild red hair and the paint on her fingers and hands, and some so far up as her bare shoulder would intrigue you, because in the world where she pretends to know you, she thinks you are drawn to people who exude creativity. Right know it is coming out of her ears, and when she opens her mouth to partake in pleasantries, it dribbles uncontrollably from the sides of her mouth. She takes no notice, only you would see things like that. You make a comment about her fingers, and she laughs, embarrassed, and explains, "I was painting by numbers." You look disappointed. She continues, "I paint by the wrong numbers, with my fingers." You find this excusable, and you ask how that might work, and she will gladly explain it. You begin walking home, and she won't speak up that she lives in a different, because she will like the way you speak, and smile. So she follows you the half block to your front door, and you begin to go inside. She stands and says goodbye, and names are not exchanged, or numbers, or anything that would make this encounter extend into other days and nights.

I accidentally interrupted the flow, so now back to your regular blog programming.

I am feeling oddly somber. I went to bed early, and so woke up early. When I woke up I read the second chapter from the e-mail app in my phone. It's beautiful. I will tell him this later.

I hadn't caught the sunrise from this end in a very long time, and maybe in a little while, I will collect quarters and try to go to savor and finish the rest of what I am reading, without the normal distractions.

I am done.

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