On the first day . . .
Sunday, the rain, the grey-slant of clouds. A trace of unquiet, like we're all farm animals sensing the earthquake the day before.
Various friends message me various words. We're all a little lonely today. So three of us grab breakfast early, a side order of bacon to stave off the afternoon.
I friend's boyfriend and I have been flirting. Today, we end up sitting on a stoop, waiting for another friend to come downstairs. We smile sideways. He won't ever cheat on his boyfriend. I'll never ask him to. But lately, I can see, we each find our hands forgetting that we're not lovers, almost forgetting not to reach out for a waist, almost forgetting not to wrap around and pull the other close.
If I was being a proper writer, I would write my friend as uncaring to his boyfriend, so that this attraction, this allure, would not seem unkind. But he's not. So we're unkind.
Leave the windows open to the rain, a half-glass suggestion to the longing, a chance for it to leave. But it won't. Yet.
Various friends message me various words. We're all a little lonely today. So three of us grab breakfast early, a side order of bacon to stave off the afternoon.
I friend's boyfriend and I have been flirting. Today, we end up sitting on a stoop, waiting for another friend to come downstairs. We smile sideways. He won't ever cheat on his boyfriend. I'll never ask him to. But lately, I can see, we each find our hands forgetting that we're not lovers, almost forgetting not to reach out for a waist, almost forgetting not to wrap around and pull the other close.
If I was being a proper writer, I would write my friend as uncaring to his boyfriend, so that this attraction, this allure, would not seem unkind. But he's not. So we're unkind.
Leave the windows open to the rain, a half-glass suggestion to the longing, a chance for it to leave. But it won't. Yet.
posted by rwgray at
9:07 PM
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