She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She had had too much caffeine and the backless chair she perched on had numbed her backside. The same paragraph had been read and reread countless times-- in that caffeine induced ability to be focused and completely blurred at the same time. The book was boring. It was Dickens. She thought a novel of his would be appropriate for the 200th year of the author's birthday. The book was in large print and thick. She had split the book in half as to carry as few of the pages as possible. She was still on the first half. Yes, it was Dickens' birthday this year, and she would take the whole year to read his story.
She stood up and sighed, she had only been reading for ten minutes. She was sweating under the wires of her bra. Her eyes were itchy and the eyelids were flaking-- pushing her palms in the dry sockets was a temporary relief. Her thoughts wandered, lazy but flighty. She thought about how odd a wedding dress would look on her, wondered how soon that same song would be playing on the radio again. She stared ahead. Walking through the door could be walking toward another goodbye. They were meeting soon. She was fifty-point-five percent sure he would be letting her down. She was fifty-point-five percent sure he would ask her back. One-hundred-one percent on tenterhooks. Shiftless and alive, that's how he made her feel. They were to meet in ten minutes, his reception, she thought, would be telling, "If his initial embrace lasts a moment past average I've got this in the bag." She moved through the doorway, walking to meet him. She was nervously sweating and smelling the pit perspiration made her more tense. She skipped a few steps to lighten the mood. Passing the crumbling pink house with all the cats, she was only four minutes away. Turning the corner, walking down the alleyway, past the dumpsters filled with rotting food.
She stood up and sighed, she had only been reading for ten minutes. She was sweating under the wires of her bra. Her eyes were itchy and the eyelids were flaking-- pushing her palms in the dry sockets was a temporary relief. Her thoughts wandered, lazy but flighty. She thought about how odd a wedding dress would look on her, wondered how soon that same song would be playing on the radio again. She stared ahead. Walking through the door could be walking toward another goodbye. They were meeting soon. She was fifty-point-five percent sure he would be letting her down. She was fifty-point-five percent sure he would ask her back. One-hundred-one percent on tenterhooks. Shiftless and alive, that's how he made her feel. They were to meet in ten minutes, his reception, she thought, would be telling, "If his initial embrace lasts a moment past average I've got this in the bag." She moved through the doorway, walking to meet him. She was nervously sweating and smelling the pit perspiration made her more tense. She skipped a few steps to lighten the mood. Passing the crumbling pink house with all the cats, she was only four minutes away. Turning the corner, walking down the alleyway, past the dumpsters filled with rotting food.
She saw him sitting at a table in the sun, reading, he was always there before her, she never had to wait. Looking up, he saw her, smiled, and stood up. She grinned, and as she approached him he opened his arms wide and held her tightly (for an average length of time).
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