October 19, 2008

proximinal measures are good for yesterday but not so much tomorrow

There are not enough guitars in Dixie to keep me awake and alive just then. The only thing that keeps me placing one foot in front of their other in an alternating manner is the good grace of some kinder saint than time.

I cross 34th street and the sidewalk is virtually deserted, aside from speeding taxis and SUVs. I skip the curb and think of Hippolito. My shoes tap the pavement and I am aware that the colder the ground, the more staccato they sound. I wonder about the waiter from tonight, I don't know what for. I will never see him not be a waiter. That occurs to me. He will never see me not as a patron. I wonder about all the things people will never see me as. Or always see me as.

Not ten minutes ago I was very concerned with your face. I was anxious to know what you were going to do with it, especially being this close to my face. It was not underwhelming, your lips on my forehead. Familiar in unfamiliar ways. That's funny, I thought. Not it's not.

Mostly I was worried that my hair was not fresh and you could detect that, being so close to it and all. For a moment I fooled myself into believing that these sorts of situations are easier for people like you to figure out. And then I think that certainly isn't the case, otherwise a lot of history would be different for me right now. I might be more or less content.

I might not have written on a beverage napkin my name for that waiter. He may have never asked for it in the first place. He won't again, I know.
I am aware that the things I give away will never amount to much more than whatever sliver of flippant generous foolishness I am enamored with at that very impetuous moment in which I decide whatever it is isn't worth keeping. I tell myself it doesn't matter anyway. I'll never hear about this again. So I'll never have to worry about it.

Thirty minutes ago I was worried you may actually like me. More so, I was worried that you were in the midst of making some uninformed decision about me. Or you didn't care enough to be set right about this sort of faux pas. I am worried you will expect this same reaction from me and then you may be disappointed. Or you won't be. I haven't decided yet.
Mostly, I'm worried that I will like you and then you will disappoint me and you'll hate everything about doing it but you still will.
These aren't the types of things I ought to be worried about though, I know. I should think about all the nothing I'd be doing instead, were I not standing underground with you, your face so close to my face.

"You're the luckiest girl I know!" H says to me, three hours earlier. His eyes are glassy and wide. His breath is hot and smells like lemon or vodka. I agree with him but I don't know if I agree with myself.
"You see," I try to explain, "All these things happen to me randomly and it's cool and promising and all... but nothing really comes of it ever..." I trail off, suddenly bored with this subject.
I don't know. I try not to poke holes in swiss cheese arguments or statements to begin with.

No comments: