Thursday, September 17, 2015

bic

She walks into class
Short black skirt, long legs
Ponytail, with burgundy ribbons, and a smile
She takes a seat
Looks around with her bright blue eyes
And asks for a pen
From another etudiant internationale

He gives her his bic
With a friendly-you’re welcome-nod
And goes back to his business
Keeping his peripheral vision intact
Toward his bic
and her stretched out legs

7 minutes before the class ends
She gathers her things
Stands up, gives back the pen she borrowed
And walks out

“Without a name or even a number
What are the odds
Of seeing the bic girl again?” he ponders
as he strolls through a campus of strangers
and unfamiliar faces…

Against the cool breeze, he lights up a cigarette
and with his first desperate toke, he lifts his head
only to find that same ponytail and ribbon 
swinging, like a hypnotic pendulum,
in front of his surprised eyes

With a second longer toke, he fills his grey lungs with spunk
and approaches her, back straightened, eyes focused
a friendly smile and a polite introduction.
He invites her out for coffee
and she- a slovako-czech 24 year old- accepts
but keeps iterating “hej, am not that kind of girl”
but coffee becomes white wine
and coyness becomes flirtations

2 hours and 2 bottles later…

Obstacles down
Walls crash

“your eyes are like almonds-
You know?  their shape”
“even the dark brown color
Is really exotic to me”

Then…

“I want to feel your proximity”
“I yearn for the Mediterranean touch”
but still repeating “hej, am not that kind of girl!”
 “am really not…”


 Zen 7-8-2014


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