2001-05-14 || 11:57 a.m.

|| ink ||

i watch myself walk outside and stop in front of him. he is always around in situations like this. he is standing in a puddle. from where i am standing, behind this window, i can see what is about to happen. the way my mouth is twitching, straying in an erratic dance from a hard line. my hands clamped tightly in fists at my sides. i am looking away, looking at his feet in the puddle, at the stray thread creeping from one of the buttons of his jacket, at the initials etched into the sidewalk a few feet away from where i am standing. and then i can see that it starts. my face turns red and crumples like a piece of paper, all papercuts and ink stains. a teardrop cuts a black (or is it blue?) ravine down my cheek. the boy doesn't move, but allows me to bend over mechanically and bury my face in his shoulder. even from here i can see that there will be ink all over his jacket. even from here i can see it is beginning to bloom, the polyester fibers absorbing the ink and fanning it out in crystalline patterns, branches, veins. he puts a hand on my back, half-heartedly, hesitantly, and i wonder if he reacts this way because of the awkwardness of the situation (he is standing in a puddle, after all) or because he doesn't want to walk home with the tell-tale inkstains only well-meaning sympathetic boys can get.

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