Untitled (Part I)
1.
“This is how it goes, how it is, how it is supposed to be.” She says these words, these things that part of me feels seem wrong, but I nod my head and I smile my smile and I say nothing. I just continues to walk down the street with a thought and a grin.
2.
When the sun is out and the clouds are gone and everything is clear I think about those times, about walking to no place in particular with her. When the time is good, when nothing is really important, that is when we are at our best.
3.
I say to her finally, “Well, I suppose you’re right. I think, though, that you take what you can and you make what you want because fuck if anyone knows what will happen this day of the next.” She looks at me with bright eyes and grabs my arm. “I don’t know what I want,” she says. “I know. I know.”
4.
What would you think of two people like us, walking though the crows, toward the pier. If you saw us you would think that we are friends. And if you came closer you would think that maybe we are more than friends. But you would see that this is not the case though we do out best to be normal and sane and just friends.
5.
I pull the sleeves of my coat down to my wrists and bump playfully into my moonbeam as we walk down the pier. The lights are brights and there is a man juggling glass and another painting names. She says, “Why are you the way you are?” as if it’s a question I’ve answered my whole life.
6.
These are the words I finally answer her with: When I was young I admired my parents for the love they had. I also watched too many Jim Carrey films. I suppose I’m the way that I am because I’ve wanted, since a kid, to have the thing that my folks have for each other. Also, I’ve wanted to make people laugh with stupid faces. That, more or less, is why I’m the way that I am.
7.
She takes this is. “That’s really cute.” she says with a smile. “It’s not that cute.”
“It is though. It’s honest. Girls like that.” I say, “Do they? I’m not so sure.”
“Of course they do, dummy.” (Don’t call me that. We’re not that close anymore.)
“Can one be too honest?” I ask.
“I think so, yeah.”
“That’s me then,” I say. “Honest too much. Honest and cute and funny faced.”
