Its seven in the morning. The gate to the apartment complex that I live in (two houses, actually, carved into ten apartments) whines with rust and crashes closed as people either return home from bars or head off to work.
Im still hung over, but not severely, not anymore. The full-body ache is gone. The headache is draining, if slowly.
The kitchen is overrun with fruit flies. We dont know how to get rid of them.
People are moving. Jasons kicking off for Colorado for the next few years, where Robin has already finished her first year of graduate philosophy and religious work. I do miss Robin. Bright, seizure-blue eyes and a clear but crazy head. Jason is a lucky man. Matt has gained full-time employment for a sensor company in north Atlanta. He will be moving closer to his girl in Athens.
Sarahs house-hunting in Austin. Shes on schedule to move in early August. Bryan, god bless him, has a job lined up in San Marcos.
And then theres Greta. Greta is not moving. As her home life with her parents in Plano was often rocky in that slow-burning silent manner, this is a good thing. Shes blossoming in her own space and its a joy to watch. But its a bad thing, too. Shes still in Austin. Eight hours away.
She logged off after a long, interesting party night first off at a bar that featured Jell-o wrestling, at which she was doubtless seething with open disdain, and later at points around the UT campus, ending up at a pizza joint at three in the morning. The pizza joint was closed, totally deserted save for her and three of her friends, which is why she was able to lock lips on the beer taps and bake her own pizzas.
She logged off after that she sent me a message. She said, first in passing, and then openly, that she missed me. And I told her the truth, that I miss her. Every time I think of this I smile and let out a slow, shaky breath.
When I was last in Austin I was holding her hand and tracing the edges of her bones with my fingertips, exploring the hollows of her wrist, and in my imagination I was tracing over the thin spider-cracks of fine bone china, areas where the porcelain had been carelessly handled, smashed, and glued back together again. And again and again.
Ill be visiting Margaret at Lulus soon shell be working her final brunch shift, cooking next to Corbin in the kitchen while smoothly providing excellent service to the customers on the patio. Today is her last day there. The restaurant has three people working at any given time and everyone does everything. This is immensely tiring. She spends another three months organizing cooking classes and then shes done here. I believe shes moving to the Carolinas, but dont quote me on that.
Margaret has the name and the classic good looks of a farmers daughter. She favors plain white tops and long colorful sarongs, which adds an open air to her already open beauty. When we first met, she was plainly interested in me, choosing seats right next to me, extending a clumsy flirt, and I did nothing, because I am just not attracted to her. She is a wonderful, sweet, crazy, and interesting girl, but when I look at her, I just cant find that arc of eccentricity that sets my heart swinging. Margaret smiles, and her eyes shine. I like people who smirk, and whose eyes glint with evil secrets.
Having been the person whose hamhanded approaches have been ignored, I know how that hurts, but theres very little I can do about it, except to be friendly. So Ill visit her, make her job easy, eat cheap and tip large, like I do for everyone I know.
Its eight in the morning, and I have to be going.
Im still hung over, but not severely, not anymore. The full-body ache is gone. The headache is draining, if slowly.
The kitchen is overrun with fruit flies. We dont know how to get rid of them.
People are moving. Jasons kicking off for Colorado for the next few years, where Robin has already finished her first year of graduate philosophy and religious work. I do miss Robin. Bright, seizure-blue eyes and a clear but crazy head. Jason is a lucky man. Matt has gained full-time employment for a sensor company in north Atlanta. He will be moving closer to his girl in Athens.
Sarahs house-hunting in Austin. Shes on schedule to move in early August. Bryan, god bless him, has a job lined up in San Marcos.
And then theres Greta. Greta is not moving. As her home life with her parents in Plano was often rocky in that slow-burning silent manner, this is a good thing. Shes blossoming in her own space and its a joy to watch. But its a bad thing, too. Shes still in Austin. Eight hours away.
She logged off after a long, interesting party night first off at a bar that featured Jell-o wrestling, at which she was doubtless seething with open disdain, and later at points around the UT campus, ending up at a pizza joint at three in the morning. The pizza joint was closed, totally deserted save for her and three of her friends, which is why she was able to lock lips on the beer taps and bake her own pizzas.
She logged off after that she sent me a message. She said, first in passing, and then openly, that she missed me. And I told her the truth, that I miss her. Every time I think of this I smile and let out a slow, shaky breath.
When I was last in Austin I was holding her hand and tracing the edges of her bones with my fingertips, exploring the hollows of her wrist, and in my imagination I was tracing over the thin spider-cracks of fine bone china, areas where the porcelain had been carelessly handled, smashed, and glued back together again. And again and again.
Ill be visiting Margaret at Lulus soon shell be working her final brunch shift, cooking next to Corbin in the kitchen while smoothly providing excellent service to the customers on the patio. Today is her last day there. The restaurant has three people working at any given time and everyone does everything. This is immensely tiring. She spends another three months organizing cooking classes and then shes done here. I believe shes moving to the Carolinas, but dont quote me on that.
Margaret has the name and the classic good looks of a farmers daughter. She favors plain white tops and long colorful sarongs, which adds an open air to her already open beauty. When we first met, she was plainly interested in me, choosing seats right next to me, extending a clumsy flirt, and I did nothing, because I am just not attracted to her. She is a wonderful, sweet, crazy, and interesting girl, but when I look at her, I just cant find that arc of eccentricity that sets my heart swinging. Margaret smiles, and her eyes shine. I like people who smirk, and whose eyes glint with evil secrets.
Having been the person whose hamhanded approaches have been ignored, I know how that hurts, but theres very little I can do about it, except to be friendly. So Ill visit her, make her job easy, eat cheap and tip large, like I do for everyone I know.
Its eight in the morning, and I have to be going.