You Write About Leaves

You’ve found the perfect corner, the perfect chair that swallows your curves in its ample crevices. You look down at your notebook. The blank page looks back at you, sticking out its tongue, taunting you. You flick your pencil, rattling the lead inside. You make up a song because you can’t make up a story.

You’d really like a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Coffee that sends balmy kisses down your throat, to the space between your breasts. You’d send the fag’s smoke to lilt in the air, swirling as hearts or circles.

You laugh at yourself. You’re so silly.

He heard you laugh. You feel him staring at you; not like a pork chop, but a chocolate cupcake, with wonder, delight, and distance. You look up in time to miss his glance. He’s back in his book, slim chance of returning.

You decide that you have to get his attention. You will get his attention.

You cough.

You clear your throat.

You sneeze. Loud.

You sigh.

You gaze out the window, hoping to appear unconcerned and hard to get, but you become entranced by the sight of autumn’s leaves skipping across the pavement and encircling one another in a ritual mating dance.

You write about leaves. Leaves, leaving, what’s left.

Your page is almost full. You stick your tongue out at it; revenge, ha ha.

You look up, wondering if he’ll laugh again. But he’s left. Just something else to write about, you think.