I saw you this morning.
I was fueling up with espresso on my corner, but my hair was clipped up, so maybe you couldn’t tell it was me, staring at you. See, my sunglasses were on, too, and my face was tilted—and with the way angles can distort, I was any other Upper Breast Side woman with a nice rack. But nothing about the moment was ordinary. I was digging through my pony skin Anya Hindmarch bag, the one I left on the train but finally got back thanks to the kindness of strangers and destiny. While I burrowed for two quarters, I suddenly had to look up, and that’s when it happened. I froze in Starbucks, where they make hot coffee to ward off the cold. A navy blur of you, outside the glass windows, I’m sure of it. You’re in running clothes, and you’re irresistible in them. You think I’ve got more issues now, think I’m mildly crazy even, for liking a guy in sweats, or a t-shirt hanging musty with your sweat. But it’s seexy, and I’m not the girl who cares if you suggest I’m crazy because normal is dull. Normal is coffee from a street vendor. Normal sucks in bed. It’s too late for you to be standing here. It’s completely illogical, but I wanted the guy outside Starbucks who I was certain was you… to be you… for what it’s worth. Call me crazy.



  1. I hate to burst your bubble, but I wasn't jogging this morning. In fact, I wasn't even wearing sweats today. Sorry.

    Oh wait. Maybe you aren't talking about me at all…


  2. This just in —

    "WASHINGTON, April 22, 2004 (Reuters) — Poets die young — younger than novelists, playwrights and other writers, a U.S. researcher said Wednesday.

    "It could be because poets are tortured and prone to self-destruction, or it could be that poets become famous young, so their early deaths are noticed, said James Kaufman of the Learning Research Institute at California State University at San Bernardino."

    Eat organic. Avoid Starbucks. Go for the veggie platter. Exercise regularly. And for God's sake, don't write anything that rhymes — or contains iambi — or even slightly smacks of one's tortured cravings and losses.



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