"The Coffee Special Stopped at 4:00"
It's 5:30 and I rail out "Curses!" and the manager, sweeping the floor, looks surprised. "It's all right, see you later," I grin and hop from the store. It's been a glorious day in Chestertown.
I bounce along the bricks toward campus until two older women turn a corner behind me with their sweatpants and swinging arms, marching at a gait that I must slightly exceed so I don't disrupt their heartrates any more than I already have upon being an object of speculation.
("What a cute professor," one whispers loudly.)
It is not even true! I have no higher credentials, and at nearly 28 I am only conversant with films pulling me into the unforgiving past: Shortbus, A Convenient Truth, Sacred Planet, Crank 2, Six Degrees Could Change the World, The Future of Food, Waiting for Guffman, Duplicity, Swimming Pool, Lions for Lambs, Dirty Pretty Things.
But I can't ponder the past, deliriously high with the intent of escaping to a place where I can gaze upon wind-strewn waters and _______ and soak the heat from sand that stretches endlessly. There is discovery in fantasy; perfect moments as we succumb to night and each other in strawberry candlelight. I am ridiculously romantic. I want to say: I have fixated on your dreams with the hope of understanding you. But I wouldn't have to say it, for in the epic power of the moment we would both realize that perfection is an inward expression of the mind. We are alone and it is what we have lived for.
There is one more thing I want to say: I never wanted to deceive you with the uncertain semblance of a situation that I never wanted a part in. You are so much more than a floating underscore, and I have longed for the impossible time in which we might share a cupcake.
I bounce along the bricks toward campus until two older women turn a corner behind me with their sweatpants and swinging arms, marching at a gait that I must slightly exceed so I don't disrupt their heartrates any more than I already have upon being an object of speculation.
("What a cute professor," one whispers loudly.)
It is not even true! I have no higher credentials, and at nearly 28 I am only conversant with films pulling me into the unforgiving past: Shortbus, A Convenient Truth, Sacred Planet, Crank 2, Six Degrees Could Change the World, The Future of Food, Waiting for Guffman, Duplicity, Swimming Pool, Lions for Lambs, Dirty Pretty Things.
But I can't ponder the past, deliriously high with the intent of escaping to a place where I can gaze upon wind-strewn waters and _______ and soak the heat from sand that stretches endlessly. There is discovery in fantasy; perfect moments as we succumb to night and each other in strawberry candlelight. I am ridiculously romantic. I want to say: I have fixated on your dreams with the hope of understanding you. But I wouldn't have to say it, for in the epic power of the moment we would both realize that perfection is an inward expression of the mind. We are alone and it is what we have lived for.
There is one more thing I want to say: I never wanted to deceive you with the uncertain semblance of a situation that I never wanted a part in. You are so much more than a floating underscore, and I have longed for the impossible time in which we might share a cupcake.