I want your life, this moment, wish it could swallow me like a gobstopper. After the initial choke I’d dissolve into it. You wouldn’t even notice me there. I do a killer chair impression. I once pretended for fifteen minutes, only moving my arms twice. I’ve missed a trick, could’ve been a successful performance artist, do you think?
I don’t do what you do but there are similar seconds. There are almosts and that’s okay. I came to terms with my hip juts and my big toes years ago and I’m looking to improve furniture now, to upgrade, add on, acquire appendages, not that I lack anything just more is more is more is more is.
It’s easy to blame timing, like time has a choice or is altering us, choosing situations for us, making crappy decisions on our behalves.
The first time you caught him looking during lunch or before work, you should’ve done something. Whether it’s right or wrong, whether there’s such thing as a right and a wrong, definitely, definitively, you should’ve been more forthright in forging a perfect life, or at least one you can cope with. But you don’t believe in absolutes. You’re pretty contradictory. You’re a Jessica Simpson fan.
Every missed try, like that time you talked on the group trip and he told you as clearly as he could, and you pretended not to hear, is lost skin, possessions you had at school that Charlotte stole, music you’ve over-listened to. Feelings you can’t get back.