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2002-05-10 || 4:43 p.m. || when you always wore that turquoise scarf and my hair always smelled like coffee || before all of this it was stars stuck in bike spokes and hearts slipped under early morning front doors. working at the bakery and letting the smell and oil of coffee beans coat dress fibers, hair strands, get caught in coat pockets and the folds of embroidered handkerchiefs. classical music and the bell ringing from the opening and closing of the shop door. a boy sitting at a marble table while she stacked chairs, counted money, mopped. turning out the lights. two pairs of footsteps filing out onto ocean avenue, painted blue. letting her ride his bike home, dress hem flirting dangerously with bike chain, furtive kisses in the form of oil streaks and heart-shaped holes. on-coming traffic. chinese grandmothers seated on beches. the hiss of electric buses. having words stowed in back pockets but too afraid to pull them out for all the doves and fireworks. getting home slowly slowly, around grassy patches, around mailboxes. tying up the bike. riding in the elevator, counting the floors, biting respective lips. floor 7: suit and scarf and a dead man's pair of glasses perched on a twenty-one year old nose. floor 12: doris day dress and mia farrow hair and the shoes whose soles click clacked like a tinny heart beat. not a kiss between the two. not yet. just love letters disguised as scribbled requests for accompaniment to the cafeteria, hours spent at the window in view of floor 7/12, greasy bags of muffins offered up like clouds and starfish. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |