Thursday, June 9, 2011

I imagine the perfect way things should go or should have gone. Even little interactions tweaked just a bit, or perhaps a whole lot, until they are the way I wish. Sometimes it's whole dialogues I play out in my head. Other times it's a matter of the seemingly insignificant details.

I can always think of the perfectly right thing to say. I can always be perfectly placed:book in lap, hair in face, sitting cross-legged. It happens in parks or at bookstores or in my third period math class. The conversation is always perfectly balanced, as we play off eachother with ease.

Mostly though things happen in the dark on the curb in front of a friends house or in my crappy basement or at Wendys. My hair bun is always a little lopsided, I stutter over my words, I call him back when I should let him get in the car. I'm never the right amount of mysterious. The second party of the conversation doesn't follow the script. I don't say the perfectly right things.

We were 20,000 underneath the sea.

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