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He
comes to my table and puts down the coffee cup and I'm thinking he
has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, the type of eyes a man
can look into forever, and I wonder, what if I ask him—what should
I ask him?—and then maybe we could get out of this place when he's
off in an hour or two, and then we’d go to another place, like my
place, where we could talk or watch a movie and I'd serve him coffee
and popcorn; we'd watch a romantic flick or a scary movie with Jamie
Lee Curtis, who would be cute if she were younger and a guy, but not
like my guy who has brown eyes, brown hair, and maple syrup skin,
maybe from the bottle, because it's sweet like that, that skin color
on his arm, the arm that perhaps, maybe, he’d put around me as we
watch Jamie Lee Curtis and she’d scream and he’d scream and I'd
hold him tight and tell him, ‘I'll take care of you, baby boy, and
I never wanna let you go,’ and he’d agree that perhaps maybe we
should never let go and he'd stay the night, he'd even sleep in my
bed next to me in the nude perhaps, or maybe just in his boxers,
maybe we’d even wear the same boxers, but who knows, and in the
morning I'd say ‘hello sunshine, hello boyfriend,’ and he'd smile
back and he'd say, perhaps, that maybe we should be in love like in a
pop song—some pop song we'd sing to in the morning because it's his
ring tone, our alarm, that we never wake to because we're always up
before it goes off, and then he'd sing to me as he strokes my hair
like it's the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, but then I'd
wonder if he'd ever watched himself in the mirror, like after a
shower. ‘Do you look at yourself in the mirror? After a shower when
the mirrors are fogged up and you have to wipe it away?’, but I
don't ask him this, rather I'd tell him that I'm not awake yet. ‘Are
you a dream?’—perhaps and maybe, I'm not quite sure. I might
finger his body from chest to abs to beautiful cock, the type I wish
I had, and as I touch him we pretend it's our first time, because it
would be our first time—making love—not a one night stand or a
two week hang-up, it's making love, the type we'd do in the shower or
in the bedroom, maybe in the kitchen if we wanted to, or how he'd
surprise me on my birthday sometime in March—when we'd smell like
balloons and birthday cake and I-love-yous, the type of I-Love-You
sex we'd do for the next fifty years as we head to anywhere but
here—always anywhere but here, the big ol' U. S. fucking A. We’d
travel the world to get marriage licenses and paste them in scrapbook
albums from Hallmark on nights after fights and I'd have to sleep on
the couch; but that scrapbook, those photos will be our happy place
in any place, and we’d gay it up with rainbows and quotes from
Judy Garland around the pictures—though we were never in Kansas to
begin with, ‘but with you I'm always over the rainbow’—and then
we’d grow old, perhaps, and I'd be happy with him in my arms,
wrinkled skin and all, and I'd say it again and again, ‘I love
you,’ each time like I'm thinking it's my last time saying it
because, baby, I can't leave this world without saying it; or maybe
we'd just stay as young as we were that one day we met and he served
me coffee and asked me, with a 20-year-old's smile, “do you want
cream, do you want sugar?” But I'm not sure, but then perhaps, but
then again maybe, but only if I could look him in those beautiful,
beautiful eyes and just ask him—but then again, what can I ask him?
A phone number? An address? His favorite movie? Or maybe the love
song he sings in the shower? What is it and who are you and can I
love you for the rest of this minute or perhaps the rest of my life?
This is what I want to say, but he walks away before I even get the
chance, and I never get the nerve. I sip and sit some more, and,
perhaps, maybe, I'll ask for more coffee.
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