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