“i’ve always wanted to run across that field, there.”
“why don’t you? when i want to do something, i just go for it.”
“ah, a man of action.”
“yeah, well, sometimes.”

after getting jerked around by the floor manager who changed the servers’ sections three times in one night and going into the back room to put my hair up once it was decided i would be expoing (even with my skirt and low-back top) to meet his eyes for the first time in weeks, i had my fifth and sixth cigarette of the day with you. you roll them yourself, sitting on the curb, talking to me of street artists and offering gentle, matter-of-fact advice. you have a strange way of listening, a better way; i’m sorry i was so self-centered. you ask me about my tattoo, moving closer and borrowing my lighter. there is a book by ayn rand in my bedroom—i am trying to figure you out. it’s something to do while waiting. i’m sorry that i will be so selfish.

i am tired of this three week happiness—of being crushed for months afterward once they leave—of others’ attitudes downplaying the legitimacy of my love—of unsaid apologies—of feeling this old at eighteen.

love going to work wearing pants you lifted that afternoon and being told by all your coworkers your ass looks hot and seeing him and knowing he’ll be looking because you knew he heard and having an ass he liked so much and ha hah ha fucker.

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i feel very young and
annoying.