I’m not so sure what I was dreaming about…
…but I’m sure it was better than this.
It was foggy and kind of cold. I had on a gray hooded sweatshirt, my red track pants, my dirty sneakers. My hair was dirty, in low pigtails because I was tired. I had plenty of time to nap in the car but I decided that no, I had too much nervous energy. The first day of class has always done this to me. Between those two buildings, near that rather pointless square of bricks in the middle of the sidewalk, I looked up and that was all it took. I’m being honest, here. Don’t laugh. That was really it. It took what? Five seconds or less? Dressed in greens, a black jacket, and the glasses. God love those glasses. My stomach did these crazy little tumbling somersaults. I spent the rest of the days with eyes wide open, just waiting, just hoping for one more look.
One year and eleven months to the day. Can you believe that? I can’t. It was raining that night. Had rained throughout the day. I was showered and curled and made-up and dressed in black, my most comfortable attire. I read the same page of my book for over an hour. I’ve yet to heal my wounded pride. Maybe because it wasn’t just my pride that was wounded.
I love being a writer because it allows me the opportunity to not live in reality. I know what’s real and what isn’t, know right from wrong and all that. My brain splits into two parts with varying shades in between. Public, private. Friend in circle one, two, three, four, etc. I trust you. I don’t trust you. You are a kindred spirit. You scare me. You can know. You cannot. To you I will lie. To you I will not.
I’m all right. I’ll stay here for hours, waiting up for you.