(no subject)
This is nostalgia.
1.He was smoking on the streetcorner, just outside of the restaurant doors. With so many years that had passed, it was a shock to her to recognize him immediately, though his back was turned and a pillar in the marble lobby obstructed her view. She knew him from a glimpse of a gesture, the way he tipped his head as if still overly conscious of his height. Beyond the shadow of the lobby, the afternoon sun shone down on the crowded sidewalk; he was in sunlight, as, to her, he had alway been.
There was nowhere to flee. Please, God, let him not come inside. The hostess, uniformed in black, called out her name.
2."Twenty-seven is my lucky number," he told her, smiling as he did, that way that was answered in his blue eyes but hid everything behind them. "My birthday is the 27th of July. I'll be twenty-seven in the year 2000, fifty-four in 2027."
She always thought of being twenty-eight at the turn of the millenium, but, yes, at the New Year, they would both be twenty-seven. "It's a good number," she agreed, noting his birthday to herself.
3.She watched him across the courtyard, wondering if it was obvious to these friends that her heart was lost, lost across a schoolyard and left at the feet of a boy tall and blond. If they noticed, she never knew. She couldn't pull her gaze away.
4.He slid into his chair, two seats ahead and below her in the tiered classroom, late but not absent after all. His white shirt was still crisp, but unbuttoned. The scent of his sweat was pleasant. He turned backward to greet her. "We had a concert today," he explained in hushed tones. "We raced to get back."
The One-Act play was under his direction. She stood where he told her to stand, moved across the stage where he indicated. He spoke, and she obeyed.
5.A splinter in her thigh from an old wooden desk, and her hose had run beyond salvaging. She cut them off of her legs with a pocket knife while two male friends watched; she enjoyed unnerving them, so calm about carrying a knife, nonchalant about hitching up her black skirt. In the periphery of her vision, she watched her love finish his conversation and pick up and open her white envelope. She watched him read what she had written in Christmas green ink, and how his posture shifted -- a slight straightening of his back, awareness and contemplation in his pose.
Even though it's only a week, I will miss you. Because I love you.
She only told him once.
6.In the sky, she counted the stars. "Five. And that one might be a satellite -- I can't tell if it's moving." She looked at anything but at him: the hazy, light-polluted sky, the fountain with its strange statuary, that they both agreed looked either like pigeons or avocados. Not a date. She was alone with him because of season theatre tickets, and his car, and "as long as we're both going...". He was so well dressed. They made scorning remarks about the audience members who had shown up in blue jeans. She made a deprecating remark about her clothes, the black silk, too much black against his pale colors.
"Morticia Adams," she said.
He shook his head. "I like your clothes."
There was nothing that she could say but her thanks.
7.He carried the single key loosely in his pocket without a keychain or other keys attached. Aren't you afraid of losing it? she wanted to ask, but she was already asking for too much. He wasn't angry as he drove her back to retrieve her forgotten purse. He didn't say a word, but he wasn't angry.
.
8.She could wait for him, the pattern of weeks, and walk with him to class. Or she could go on ahead, and he would find her in the classroom. She had cried for the full hour since he had spoken to her. She had fled from his condemnation in tears, and wept quietly behind her hair through the next class. It would be apparent.
No matter what else was true, he was her friend. She waited for him.
He hadn't expected it. "I guess it was my fault, too," he offered, gently, as they walked.
"No," she shook her head. "No."
9.He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her wild eyes. "Get Over It," he commanded, his exasperation mixing with his concern.
She looked back into his eyes, and was strangely calmed.
. . .
1.He was smoking on the streetcorner, just outside of the restaurant doors. With so many years that had passed, it was a shock to her to recognize him immediately, though his back was turned and a pillar in the marble lobby obstructed her view. She knew him from a glimpse of a gesture, the way he tipped his head as if still overly conscious of his height. Beyond the shadow of the lobby, the afternoon sun shone down on the crowded sidewalk; he was in sunlight, as, to her, he had alway been.
There was nowhere to flee. Please, God, let him not come inside. The hostess, uniformed in black, called out her name.
2."Twenty-seven is my lucky number," he told her, smiling as he did, that way that was answered in his blue eyes but hid everything behind them. "My birthday is the 27th of July. I'll be twenty-seven in the year 2000, fifty-four in 2027."
She always thought of being twenty-eight at the turn of the millenium, but, yes, at the New Year, they would both be twenty-seven. "It's a good number," she agreed, noting his birthday to herself.
3.She watched him across the courtyard, wondering if it was obvious to these friends that her heart was lost, lost across a schoolyard and left at the feet of a boy tall and blond. If they noticed, she never knew. She couldn't pull her gaze away.
4.He slid into his chair, two seats ahead and below her in the tiered classroom, late but not absent after all. His white shirt was still crisp, but unbuttoned. The scent of his sweat was pleasant. He turned backward to greet her. "We had a concert today," he explained in hushed tones. "We raced to get back."
The One-Act play was under his direction. She stood where he told her to stand, moved across the stage where he indicated. He spoke, and she obeyed.
5.A splinter in her thigh from an old wooden desk, and her hose had run beyond salvaging. She cut them off of her legs with a pocket knife while two male friends watched; she enjoyed unnerving them, so calm about carrying a knife, nonchalant about hitching up her black skirt. In the periphery of her vision, she watched her love finish his conversation and pick up and open her white envelope. She watched him read what she had written in Christmas green ink, and how his posture shifted -- a slight straightening of his back, awareness and contemplation in his pose.
Even though it's only a week, I will miss you. Because I love you.
She only told him once.
6.In the sky, she counted the stars. "Five. And that one might be a satellite -- I can't tell if it's moving." She looked at anything but at him: the hazy, light-polluted sky, the fountain with its strange statuary, that they both agreed looked either like pigeons or avocados. Not a date. She was alone with him because of season theatre tickets, and his car, and "as long as we're both going...". He was so well dressed. They made scorning remarks about the audience members who had shown up in blue jeans. She made a deprecating remark about her clothes, the black silk, too much black against his pale colors.
"Morticia Adams," she said.
He shook his head. "I like your clothes."
There was nothing that she could say but her thanks.
7.He carried the single key loosely in his pocket without a keychain or other keys attached. Aren't you afraid of losing it? she wanted to ask, but she was already asking for too much. He wasn't angry as he drove her back to retrieve her forgotten purse. He didn't say a word, but he wasn't angry.
.
8.She could wait for him, the pattern of weeks, and walk with him to class. Or she could go on ahead, and he would find her in the classroom. She had cried for the full hour since he had spoken to her. She had fled from his condemnation in tears, and wept quietly behind her hair through the next class. It would be apparent.
No matter what else was true, he was her friend. She waited for him.
He hadn't expected it. "I guess it was my fault, too," he offered, gently, as they walked.
"No," she shook her head. "No."
9.He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her wild eyes. "Get Over It," he commanded, his exasperation mixing with his concern.
She looked back into his eyes, and was strangely calmed.
. . .