Rollerblades

I'm not going to be overly poetic about this, because I think the situation is quite poetic in itself:

Every Wednesday at 2:30 I walk back from my class alone on the left side of the street.

And

Every Wednesday at 2:34 he skates by alone on the right side of the street.


And that's all I have to say about that. But that's never all I have to say about anything.

Today I walked with a friend, and as he passed, I told her that he was my favorite.

And she asked if I had a class with him, to which I responded, "no".

And she asked how I knew him and I pointed as he turned off of Beech Street and I said, "that's how."

She stopped asking questions. "Oh". And she laughed. And I might have laughed a little too, but it wasn't the sort of laughter that you'd expect- it wasn't that shared laughter that comes from an uneven pause in conversation. I realize now that I was laughing at myself again.

I could have told her how much more I know about him. Or you. Or I could have just kept laughing like it was religion, like I was trying to startle the gods with a hem and a haw, trying to awake the hand of fate til it dropped from the sky and shoved me to the other side of the road. But then He would have heard. And then maybe he'd stop skating down Beech Street every Wednesday at 2:34.