He found me
in the bookstore. Barefoot. My black sandals with the golden buckles laying
calmly beside me, taking in the smell of new books. I was sitting between the
titles labeled fiction. His gray backpack slung across his inflated chest,
resting lazily on his hip. I wonder what he carried in his little satchel. He
looked down at me and I saw the recognition in his eye. Hello beautiful. I do
recognize you. Yes. It is me. He didn’t have to say the words. I knew they were
there. I could see them forming on his lips.
I put my
finger between the oatmeal colored pages and stared up at him. Expectantly. He
just smiled and continued to browse through the multi-colored spines. Concentrating
a little too hard. Focusing on the words a little too much.
So you going
to act like you don’t know me? Like you weren’t on the phone with me last
night, whispering melodic words and naughty secrets as I fought sleep? Was that
not you sitting at my feet in the park singing as I played my guitar? So you
going to act like that thing didn’t happen in the back seat of my father’s
Camaro? That was just last week. We came so close. You going to stand there
knowingly ignoring me? As though I mean nothing? Yeah? That’s how we’re doing
it now?
Why?
We love the
same plays. We bop our heads to the same music, letting our long hair flow
free. You turned me on to real hip hop my junior year of college on those dirty
Brooklyn streets in front of my mom’s house. That was me. Who were you?
Certainly not this zombie in the fiction aisle of the overpriced book store
scanning the same titles just to avoid looking at me. You couldn’t be the
insensitive jackass with the gray backpack filled with wonder and curiosity.
And you
certainly couldn’t be this guy whose girlfriend turned down the aisle and
casually grabbed his hand. The guy that kissed this pretty girl with diamond
studs rocking a low cut caesar. Couldn’t be the same guy that told me forever
isn’t long enough to share a life with me. Perhaps forever had been cut short
by the girl with the red shorts and no hair.
But alas,
there you were. And you were him. I suddenly didn’t feel like reading anymore.
I packed up my books and slowly lifted myself off of the cheaply carpeted
floor. I lost my page. Oh well.
I walked
past you and her. She never took her dark brown eyes off of the literature,
scanning the titles for something to pull her in. I got a story for you girl.
It’s sure to knock your socks off.
Your gaze
followed me up the aisle. Past you. And toward the door. I stared back, asking
you all of the questions with silent lips and loud eyes. You mouthed that you
were sorry. I couldn’t have said it better. Sorry ass motherlover. I nodded my
agreement. You didn’t have to tell me what I already knew. I’m finished with
you. I walked out.
I hate
reading. Books are stupid anyway. I refuse to go to anymore bookstores. Coffee
shops have better atmospheres anyway. And at least I can get a drink to wash
down the hurt, anger, and disappointment that I sometimes order off of the
greasy menu. They always serve those dishes cold. Maybe a little pick me up
will make the bullshit go down smoother. Maybe it will help me forget about
you. Maybe it will help me use all of this knowledge I ingest from books to pick
a better man next time. Maybe.
