My outfit smells like
sweat and other people. I take it you’re
familiar with the Outfit by now: Astro Boy t shirt, baggy blue Kik’s, dark red
Adidas. John says they’re magenta. I forgot to wash it but there’s no time
now. Even though I don’t have work, I
feel like I have to get some coffee.
Maybe it’ll inspire me to become a painter or learn how to play the
piano. I’m locking the door when I see
her. Natasha.
Hey.
She looks beautiful,
more than I’d like to remember. She’s
wearing a bright blue dress with fluorescent orange fishes on it. Swimming.
What else do fishes do? The dress
also has these dark red or magenta patterns and some green stripes but I can’t
figure out what they’re supposed to represent.
Although I’ve never seen her wear this dress before, it looks
familiar. It all looks familiar. Same dark red hair, same sharp triangle nose,
but her eyes are distant, her face is distant, her body: distant. I’m looking at her, standing there, waiting
for her to say anything. Hello. Goodbye.
And I think if I could have one wish, it would be that she didn’t know
me.
Hey.
How are you?
Okay.
I’m okay. How are you?
Okay.
You’re wearing that shirt.
Yah.
I always liked that shirt.
Yah.
I know.
I want to stick my tongue
down her throat. I want her to show me
she still loves me or pretend she does.
It doesn’t have to be real. Who
am I kidding? If she loved me, she
wouldn’t have asked me not to call her.
Have you seen John?
Yah.
How is he?
John was abducted by aliens.
Really?
Really.
Is he back?
Yah.
He works at Jamba Juice.
Oh.
So what’re you doing here?
Some guy I met. He lives here.
Lives next door?
Two doors down.
Really.
I bet he’s a dick.
Yah.
Kinda weird.
Yah.
It’s easier to cope without
seeing, make-believe they never existed, that they were nothing more than the
product of some racing endorphins or a mild hallucination. I want to touch her, hold her – just hold
her. I want contact. But she’s standing there in her bright blue dress
with the fluorescent orange fishes and the dark red or magenta and green shapes
I can’t figure out, glancing at her little black watch, swinging her little
purse bag, trying not to look at me staring at her when I know I’m staring at
her and don’t care I’m staring at her because I know she’s here to fuck some
other guy because I wasn’t fucking good enough for her.
I ask her if I can call
her.
No.
It’s hard to put into
words what you don’t think you understand. You want to know why. You want an explanation. You want closure. So you keep asking yourself why this, why
that, why, over and over, waiting for the magic to happen, trying to attach a
word to a feeling – a word that doesn’t exist.
You going to Starbucks?
Yah.
I was …
I’ve gotta go meet my friend.
Well, it was good seeing you.
You, too.
Yah.
It’s been fun.
I turn my back and walk
away. Sure, I want to talk to her, but
it’s easier to walk away. I can’t stand
looking at her not look at me.