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I can still see her standing in that white shirt, looking just like the boys from my grade school
2002-12-05 // 10:11 a.m.

Get out of here. You’re wearing that shirt and a smile; you’re doing all the things you do that make me feel stupid.

She sits across from me and makes a joke. I laugh at her, at her expression, at the thing she said. I am thinking in the bottom corner of my mind of all the things I am not doing but should be while the rest of my brain processes thoughts of her like Lucy’s candy factory, one at a time spilling over until I am overwhelmed.

She absent-mindedly buttons up the small, white shirt and I am taken in. It is ridiculous to ask myself whether or not I’m staring—I am, there is no getting around it. I try to look away, but my eyes are fixed on her figure, small and illuminated by the glow of the over-bright light.

I realize daily how impossible anything more between us is, with every conversation and glance. At the same time, I crave more and more until I feel like a begging dog or child, whining at the doorway, asking to be let in, asking for the sweet things I cannot get.

I’d pay her more than a penny for her thoughts. For passage into the places in her mind, I’d give her heaps and stacks of quarters, ten-dollar bills folded stripper tip style and stuffed into her pockets (in lieu of a g-string). I would give anything to know what she’s thinking right now, to know what she thinks of when she’s almost asleep, to know what she’d think if I kissed her.

I can answer my own questions sometimes with answers I do not want to hear, and that last is one of them. A quiet refusal, an irreparable tear, the white shirt she is wearing cast aside in the hopes that I will be dissuaded.

Some things are just too simple to want to believe.


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