warm, concave, double dips
There she is.
Day twelve, though, I can't tell if that's an entirely accurate count.
Especially, now that I think of it, since I have a Tuesday, Thursday routine.
Christ, she wouldn't come here everyday, would she?
Alright.
All I know is she is there, will most likely be there, and has been there since, well, about three months ago. give or take, mind you.
When I enter the library my eyes fasten on her distant figure.
sitting and listening.
always listening.
My optic orbs fasten to her in liquid determination, my pupils trembling in with strained effort until my lids slomly narrow. Absolute is my wanton hatred of this stranger, this female computer user.
That netted hair band she always wears seems to insist, vehemently, that forehead and scalp are transposable features.
Those bulbous Coby headphones seem to direct her actions, some big brotherly voice soothes her, gives her the verbal attention reality does not offer.
She pecks at the keys audibly slow, as if savoring the sound and feel of plastic teeth submitting to the will of her flapping fingers. What does she type?
I watch her from my computer station, my eyes obsessively flicker to her face and narrow quickly before gradually swerving, like a head on collision in slow motion, back to the blaring headlights of my waiting Internet Explorer.
Her face, so blissfully unaware of my boiling fury, frozen in a stupid grin.
Whatever anomaly the screen presents before that vacant gaze, sedated smile, and nostrils flaring in excitement smile must not require much thought.
It couldn't possibly.
I mean she sits there at seven in the morning, when I arrive, as if she had always occupied that seat.
At twelve I enter, hoping to fit some studying in, and there, at the very same computer station, she sits wearing that grin. The awful grin, an exaggerated gush of anticipation found most commonly on young boys watching the commercials between an episode of cowboys and indians. Bladders brimming with urine their body just itches to let piddle, faces contorted painfully with pleasure, the anticipation of the coming show the only active restraint, about as secure as a toothpick supporting a fully loaded parking garage. Moans and whimpers, rocking and dripping, they hold themselves retardedly at bay. Eyes going in opposite directions, fishy focus on walls opposite of each other.
That's her. With the exception of the trembling for she visibly holds the eruption.
Still as a statue she sits. When I arrive at three in the afternoon she is there, as dependable as a the family dog to come wagging his tale, lolling tongue held to one side of its gaping mouth, as the man of the house returns from a full day at the office.
Headphones, paunchy slouch, and permanent smile of entertainment.
Ignorant.
Everytime I see her I wish.
I wish I could multiply my body or even gather a large number of people around me to take up every open computer spot before she arrives.
Watch her spirit crumble under my wickedly elongated shadow.
I would laugh at her utter bewilderment.
Day twelve, though, I can't tell if that's an entirely accurate count.
Especially, now that I think of it, since I have a Tuesday, Thursday routine.
Christ, she wouldn't come here everyday, would she?
Alright.
All I know is she is there, will most likely be there, and has been there since, well, about three months ago. give or take, mind you.
When I enter the library my eyes fasten on her distant figure.
sitting and listening.
always listening.
My optic orbs fasten to her in liquid determination, my pupils trembling in with strained effort until my lids slomly narrow. Absolute is my wanton hatred of this stranger, this female computer user.
That netted hair band she always wears seems to insist, vehemently, that forehead and scalp are transposable features.
Those bulbous Coby headphones seem to direct her actions, some big brotherly voice soothes her, gives her the verbal attention reality does not offer.
She pecks at the keys audibly slow, as if savoring the sound and feel of plastic teeth submitting to the will of her flapping fingers. What does she type?
I watch her from my computer station, my eyes obsessively flicker to her face and narrow quickly before gradually swerving, like a head on collision in slow motion, back to the blaring headlights of my waiting Internet Explorer.
Her face, so blissfully unaware of my boiling fury, frozen in a stupid grin.
Whatever anomaly the screen presents before that vacant gaze, sedated smile, and nostrils flaring in excitement smile must not require much thought.
It couldn't possibly.
I mean she sits there at seven in the morning, when I arrive, as if she had always occupied that seat.
At twelve I enter, hoping to fit some studying in, and there, at the very same computer station, she sits wearing that grin. The awful grin, an exaggerated gush of anticipation found most commonly on young boys watching the commercials between an episode of cowboys and indians. Bladders brimming with urine their body just itches to let piddle, faces contorted painfully with pleasure, the anticipation of the coming show the only active restraint, about as secure as a toothpick supporting a fully loaded parking garage. Moans and whimpers, rocking and dripping, they hold themselves retardedly at bay. Eyes going in opposite directions, fishy focus on walls opposite of each other.
That's her. With the exception of the trembling for she visibly holds the eruption.
Still as a statue she sits. When I arrive at three in the afternoon she is there, as dependable as a the family dog to come wagging his tale, lolling tongue held to one side of its gaping mouth, as the man of the house returns from a full day at the office.
Headphones, paunchy slouch, and permanent smile of entertainment.
Ignorant.
Everytime I see her I wish.
I wish I could multiply my body or even gather a large number of people around me to take up every open computer spot before she arrives.
Watch her spirit crumble under my wickedly elongated shadow.
I would laugh at her utter bewilderment.