Today I might see you in the hall at work. I could sit by you on the bench an inch closer than Americans are supposed to. Your hand stretched over your book could be playing slide guitar. Shortstop. Fingers long as cats. I could stop holding my breath. How you smell is the place your neck gives onto your shoulder where I would like to rest. This is the eleventh day of rain in a row when the wind off the river pimp-slaps us university whores heading to class. This might be the very day I see you because I've neglected to wash my hair and my eyes are dull as texts. There might be five minutes. We don't have to think anything. -- Belle Waring, from her book "Dark Blonde".
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