Sunday, June 24, 2012
Printed in block letters on a tag with curled up plastic edges. You are the counter girl at the cafe on Boylston, the one with the autumn hair and blanched skin and red lips and black fingernails. I smile at you everyday and you smile back and while it may seem fleeting it keeps me from throwing myself in front of the cramped outbound subway to be mushed and cut in half and crushed out of this existence in a banshee scream of steel on steel.
You don't know my name (luckily I am at the point in my life where my job does not require a name tag) but I am going to dig around and collect some dusty courage and ask you out, and you'll say yes and I'll take you to the dimly lit place around the corner. I'll try my hardest to make you smile and entice those dimples to emerge from their cheeky hiding place.
I'll look you deep in your cerulean eyes and promise you the moon in the ink blot sky. I'll see you again, and again, and I'll court you and we'll move in together to a studio in the Town. I'll think of an ingenious way to convince you to be my wife, and your white dress will gently blow in the breeze with the sailboats lazily nodding in agreement behind us. We'll have three sandy haired kids and I'll work late nights and you'll catch me banging my secretary and I will devastate you like I do to everyone that loves me and you'll take the sandy haired kids and I'll be left with no choice but to murder us all.
So just say yes.