(no subject)
Walking back from a student-written play on Abu Ghraib, I thought about the hug I gave Gaby, one of the dancers, how our hands clasped each other with such ease. How it was so easy for me to watch Eloise give her flowers and talk to her in Spanish, explaining why she chose the ones she did--an orange mum and a pink rose--and to stand so close to them like we were neighboring branches radiating from the same tree.
The cool spring air was sneaking through my hoodie and sweatpants to brush me gently, and I breathed it steadily as I walked home in the darkened Cambridge streets, turning my thoughts to my current paper. I passed a parking lot fenced by gates. In one of the small posts, two men were talking. One was eating a sandwich in his seat next to a tiny boombox, the other was standing on a concrete block, feet squared and shoulders loose in his starched uniform shirt. He gestured to me, smiling as he said, "Excuse me, do you want to dance?"
I said, "No, I'm sorry, I can't," just as the sweet, bouncy reggae music tickled my ear.
I didn't break my stride or look back, but a small part of me wished that I had stopped. That I had danced.
The cool spring air was sneaking through my hoodie and sweatpants to brush me gently, and I breathed it steadily as I walked home in the darkened Cambridge streets, turning my thoughts to my current paper. I passed a parking lot fenced by gates. In one of the small posts, two men were talking. One was eating a sandwich in his seat next to a tiny boombox, the other was standing on a concrete block, feet squared and shoulders loose in his starched uniform shirt. He gestured to me, smiling as he said, "Excuse me, do you want to dance?"
I said, "No, I'm sorry, I can't," just as the sweet, bouncy reggae music tickled my ear.
I didn't break my stride or look back, but a small part of me wished that I had stopped. That I had danced.