I was the last person there was room for. I apologized to those I stepped on and sat on the floor with a lot of other people. I was half under a chair with the corner of somebody’s book in my ass, but the room itself was nice, cool, filled with dark wood and the library smell. The windows were wide open and in the lulls I could hear the kids crunching past in the leaves outside, laughing and swearing.
Then an hour of helpful talk on the logical, practical tools of optimism, on how it might be done and how it might sustain me. Afterwards I got lost on the way to my car but with the ipod I don't care. Why do boys think I'm flirting when I ask for directions? I used to be, but now I'm not, can't they tell? Either I was always too subtle, I can't control my own lascivious pull, or men will flirt with absolutely anything on legs. I'm pretty sure that's the one.
On Ponce, somewhere between Decatur and skank, there's a little park on the south side. Traffic was light so as I flew by I had only a few seconds to observe the three people under a red tree. The big-haired guy, the girl with curves, and the tall elegant lady in the green suit who was holding an unfolded bible in both hands. The big-haired guy and the girl with curves were holding hands, both of each other's hands, er, both his hands holding both her hands. and smiling softly at each other and I had just enough time to think, oh, they're getting married next to traffic!
The illusion broke, and the big-haired guy and the girl with curves unfroze. They weren't holding hands, or at least not purely for romance, they were at the laughing, tense part of the slap game. The beautiful green minister folded her paper and walked down the sidewalk smiling, knowing she'd played it flawlessly, knowing she got me pretty good.
