That's all. It sounds like family and a lot of f's. Damn alliteration. Can't help it sometimes. A bad writer follows his mistakes to the grave. Nothing happening. The economies bad. It's just so hard to start something new. She says I write like a fourteen year-old girl, sometimes. At other times I'd come home to her, and now she's gone.
Back to the electronic database, where so quickly I can catch up and feel in the loop, while I can't wait to leave an exciting city, a fun occassion, the adventure of my life, because I had to go home and stare at a screen, sometimes typing. That's where she is.
Another...
To your bottom left is a purple butterfly. You don't notice the rectangular cuts of the sidewalk but you've imprinted them in your brain with the slight flutter.
That's who she was. Four flights up a random building on 16th Street where the security guard asks you what your business is and you say, Oh yeah, umm, yoga graduation with a slight hint of guilt in your eyes because you were just kind of goin' with the flow on this one and after a few beers at a late lunch watching beautiful women graduate from yoga school isn't that bad an idea. Right? But you kinda feel like your girlfriend is trying something on at Forever 21. Your friend invited you anyway, so no biggie.
But she got you, instantly. Right when you crossed sixteenth someone was reprimanding a thief, then there was brick wall, then you saw a line of people and you assume that's where the event is. Your friend's girlfriend Tiffany is there. Wait, Tiffany is friends with that girl. I met her a couple months ago, maybe two at a friend's going away party, weirdest thing to have two women with the same name who made some impact on your life despite your hermetic seal go away at the same time. She was in the corner, quiet, observing, bending the room to her presence, she had too much room around her, yet she was circled with eye contact. I said 'wow' quietly. She's out of touch. She's amazing. Gone. Nothing but a name on a database. Then she cancels her account.
And usually if you're around, that means that...
The purple butterfly on the sidewalk. My stomach tenses and I pretend like it doesn't. "Hey, how are you," you say to Tiffany. It's small talk. You catch up. You look over at Tiffany's friend, a princess, thus her danger. You love alpha females, but you're sensitive. But she seems really mellow.
And now she remembers me, don't give her credit, keep smiling. Four flights upstairs behind cowboy boots and a black dress. No shoes and polished wood floors inside the studio, slippery socks. Where am I? This building is beautiful, Am I spiritual, athletic, intellectual? Where do I go with this? If I've seen her twice does that mean I'll see her a third time? She's constantly in line behind me, first by the guacamole, then by the red wine. We smile. Will she be marrying a yuppy, dowsing me with regret for being so scared of being happy and not acting on the moment that could've changed the lives and direction for a thousand people dazed by insomnia and the eternal return seeking only things that weren't that bad? One moment at a time.
"I'm a Leo, and I'm quiet and laid back," she says. "but don't ever stop looking at me."
"I won't."
The room went quiet. Our friends have walked away. No one says a word.
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