A Pretty Apt Metaphorical Assessment of the Summer
It was a misplaced morning, everything off and lukewarm--accidentally being stood up for breakfast, traffic, my last Mexican chocolate sadly mediocre, my last scone sadly cold and a bit burnt, no seats at the cafe, breaking a bottle of cream soda in the garage right underneath the car's tires.
And yet everything was utterly all right, because of that moment, while I was extremely jittery and in the process of being stood up, and was crammed into a corner by the press of people waiting for a table, and so nervously tried to avert my eyes from the--let's face it--gorgeous--boy beside me with the floppy black hair and soft, soft smile by turning to examine the menu on the wall, but we were all so close and I bumped elbows with him and muttered "I'm sorry" and very probably blushed, because it was that sort of morning that even my own blood flow would betray me.
Now, I don't know if he was drunk at 10 am, or more likely high, or maybe just off his rocker, but he turned to me with that absurdly slight, affectionate smile, didn't say a word. Just pet my shoulder. Pet my shoulder in that vaguely comforting, it's-fine sort of way that would make sense if the petting had gone on about ten seconds less and if I had maybe actually known him. And then smiled a bit, and turned to be seated.
At which point, having been stood up for about twenty minutes and being a kind of confused, smiling, blushing mess, I decided to get the hell out of there and get myself that hot cocoa. Which was mediocre, as I said, but still, was made all right by the meaning-crammed, meaningless, awkward, affectionate shoulder-patting of a stranger.
In retrospect, more of an Italian soda moment, metaphorically speaking.
And yet everything was utterly all right, because of that moment, while I was extremely jittery and in the process of being stood up, and was crammed into a corner by the press of people waiting for a table, and so nervously tried to avert my eyes from the--let's face it--gorgeous--boy beside me with the floppy black hair and soft, soft smile by turning to examine the menu on the wall, but we were all so close and I bumped elbows with him and muttered "I'm sorry" and very probably blushed, because it was that sort of morning that even my own blood flow would betray me.
Now, I don't know if he was drunk at 10 am, or more likely high, or maybe just off his rocker, but he turned to me with that absurdly slight, affectionate smile, didn't say a word. Just pet my shoulder. Pet my shoulder in that vaguely comforting, it's-fine sort of way that would make sense if the petting had gone on about ten seconds less and if I had maybe actually known him. And then smiled a bit, and turned to be seated.
At which point, having been stood up for about twenty minutes and being a kind of confused, smiling, blushing mess, I decided to get the hell out of there and get myself that hot cocoa. Which was mediocre, as I said, but still, was made all right by the meaning-crammed, meaningless, awkward, affectionate shoulder-patting of a stranger.
In retrospect, more of an Italian soda moment, metaphorically speaking.