It was the closest
by Charlē Head
It was the closest thing to happiness since that Tuesday at the boxcar with Margeret from the breakfast place and her half-brother Carl from St. Louis. I was glad I had been there and glad that I had met Margeret. She was good to the bone; you could tell by the way she blushed when she said words that could have been vulgar: Carl and a friend from some school someone had attended once upon a time began discussing Sleeping Beauty through the lens of industrialization. Margeret blurted out a question about how did the princess prick herself? She turned red and didn’t talk for nearly 45 minutes; just sat there sipping her tea and locking eyes with the ground while conversation blew all around her like endless dustbowls on a prairie.
Now, here I was again with Margeret though this time she was at work and taking a break and I was having chocolate chip pancakes and a cup of coffee… I couldn’t believe how easy she was. All those things that guys seem to instinctually solicit while on a date with a girl. The laugh, the smile, the eye contact, even the blush, they were all right there. She was gushing with them. Good to the bone. I think we even hurdled the cumbersome touching of the tips of the fingers with grace and ease enough not to draw attention. She talked mostly about some guy named Phillip. I talked mostly about things that seemed easy …. the fact that blueberry was a far superior syrup for chocolate chip pancakes.
I knew she wasn’t interested in me like she was Phillip. I think I seemed comfortable and transparent in her eyes. I accepted all the affection I could in that fifteen minute break like a dry pancake soaking up syrup. Though this affection was boysenberry not blueberry; a bit bitter. I wished her the best with Phillip, left a big tip, and went out to meet some friends at the boxcar. That was the closest thing to happiness since that Tuesday…,