Walk down the street with confidence. Wish that you were holding his hand. You could, but you won't. You don't.
Wait for the light to change, cross the street. The next light doesn’t change fast enough and you jaywalk. Who cares? It’s 9am and there aren’t any cars.
Go into the coffeeshop, catch the eye of the girl at the counter. Approach with only a little shame. Know that she’s staring at your neck. Staring at the two of you, here together. Pretend you don’t know.
“Hello, people I’ve never met before in my life,” she smirks.
“Hey, Harriet,” you say, not looking at her nametag.
“Welcome to Starbucks, mysterious strangers. Do you know what you’d like to order?”
He orders first, and you get the same drink. Pay for the both of you. Harriet is trying not to laugh. She watches your body language, the way you orbit each other, never standing too close to him, lest you betray the secret that all three of you already know.
She asks how your morning is going, and you say you’re not sure yet, you’ve just woken up. He says he has no comment. She grins.
You sit and drink the hot milky beverages, and you talk about comic books. You mainly talk about comic books. He tells you the plot of one you haven’t read and can’t afford, and you smile and nod and remember the feel of his hair between your fingers, his lips against your skin.
He leaves, he has class soon, and you walk home alone. Feel the eyes that judge you, not lovingly like Harriet’s, but with concern, as they take in the purple blotches on your neck.
They are afraid for you, afraid of you. This was what you wanted, what you asked for. But you never know when to stop. You aren’t limping this time, an improvement. You wonder what your audience would think if they could see the bruises on your chest, on your thighs.
Wear these marks like your own scarlet letter. Wear them like a badge of honour.
Wait for the light to change, cross the street. The next light doesn’t change fast enough and you jaywalk. Who cares? It’s 9am and there aren’t any cars.
Go into the coffeeshop, catch the eye of the girl at the counter. Approach with only a little shame. Know that she’s staring at your neck. Staring at the two of you, here together. Pretend you don’t know.
“Hello, people I’ve never met before in my life,” she smirks.
“Hey, Harriet,” you say, not looking at her nametag.
“Welcome to Starbucks, mysterious strangers. Do you know what you’d like to order?”
He orders first, and you get the same drink. Pay for the both of you. Harriet is trying not to laugh. She watches your body language, the way you orbit each other, never standing too close to him, lest you betray the secret that all three of you already know.
She asks how your morning is going, and you say you’re not sure yet, you’ve just woken up. He says he has no comment. She grins.
You sit and drink the hot milky beverages, and you talk about comic books. You mainly talk about comic books. He tells you the plot of one you haven’t read and can’t afford, and you smile and nod and remember the feel of his hair between your fingers, his lips against your skin.
He leaves, he has class soon, and you walk home alone. Feel the eyes that judge you, not lovingly like Harriet’s, but with concern, as they take in the purple blotches on your neck.
They are afraid for you, afraid of you. This was what you wanted, what you asked for. But you never know when to stop. You aren’t limping this time, an improvement. You wonder what your audience would think if they could see the bruises on your chest, on your thighs.
Wear these marks like your own scarlet letter. Wear them like a badge of honour.
