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2002-02-07 || 1:05 p.m. || with its tine bent out of shape || i have a lunch posse. three girls and sometimes a sean. we seek out lunch specials and crosswalk crushes. we share words of the day and scandalous stories and cigarettes. over lunch we wipe at our mouths with napkins, say thank you in unison when our water glasses are filled, spot each other dollars when we come up a little short. we are in fake bands and have fake boyfriends and make plans for picnics and happy hour and all calling in sick with lunchtime food poisoning. we have gotten to telling secrets and details, and when i offer mine i see them arranged on the table for examination, like salt and pepper shakers, like a fork with its tine bent out of shape. with surprising shapes and textures. sometimes unrecognizable. i consider swallowing them back up before they get the chance to define me, to solidify into vehicles of characterization. (thank you HARVe for your tines.) guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |