i had originally intended to go to a show tonight, but i decided not to go. i went to a bookstore instead & made eyes at a boy with ripped pants and a homemade t-shirt. we ended up reaching for the same magazine at the same time but it made me empty. he was probably 20. i found a bukowski book i wanted immediately & went to the store front to pay.
as i walked i was ashamed of myself when i realized i was playing with my hair. the ripped jeans boy was paying for his books at the same time.
a trait of american women when flirting is to inadvertantly play with their hair & show their palms.
i must be very lonely.
he paid, made eyes at me & left. thank god he left.
i gave the cashier, an old man with a gnarled face, my cash card. i waited for him to hand me my book & receipt. i had plans to go somewhere & sit where people would watch me read so i could play with my hair. goddamn me.
but after he scanned my card, he said there was an error. he tried again & i left without my books.
i am sometimes so proud of myself when i pump my own gas or when i eat out somewhere by myself.
i can sit & watch people & chew all by myself.
& i am doomed to.