She came along in that kind of way that presumed she was independent. Really, she wanted him to lean over and say something: “I’ve read that author"
“Do you have the time?”
“Excuse me, do you have a pen I could borrow?”
The boy was already sitting at the coffee shop with an open book in front of him. She couldn’t make the move.
She was the girl.

☛☚

The second boy walked in with an anchor tattooed on his right shoulder. He wore tight jeans and a striped black and white tank-top. He had long blond side-burns that made one think he was an Elvis impersonator.
And there was something about his eyes —very green and uncanny — that made the boy look at him.

☛☚

Each subject had their own books; each book was open ( literally, open books! ) with pencil markings in the margin.
She read Milton.
The boy read Winterson.
The second boy read Dostoevsky.

They looked as though they paid attention to what he or she was reading, but each were busy with personal thoughts. The printed words were merely black and white marks on the wall, the wall that was the page they read from.

One thought the second boy liked the boy but was too shy to say something.

Another thought the boy liked the girl but was too proud to express himself.

And the other thought the boy a fool. No way in hell would anything happen between two boys without introduction!

☛☚

They flipped pages, they peeked from the corners of their eyes, they crossed one leg over the other, they looked out the window, they supported their jaws with the flesh of their palms, they read, they did more than read, they flirted, they listened to themselves, they listened to each other; and then they drew themselves.

☛☚

The boy drew a ship. Waves were drawn with the mercury of a pair of compasses, and the second boy was standing on an island. His arms were spread like an airplane and he had dimples on his bum and a mermaid tattooed around his hip (there was no blue ink to paint her fins).

The second boy faced the overlapping semi-circles, oscillating, standing at the edge of a plank where his arms were drawn from fingertip to fingertip like the tail of an orca whale diving in the ocean. It was a swan dive position.

They were boys, there was water, there was wood, there was wave. This is what the boy drew.

☛☚

What the girl didn’t know was that she was more intelligent.

Besides, Milton was the lyrical master; he was the one she’d give her heart to if he walked through the door.

For now, she had to settle; she had to hope. Her red Converse, her uncombed hair resting under her left ear, her indifferent, almost careless expression. This proved nothing. She was not ‘laid-back’. She did not think of drawing when she wanted someone to approach her — anyone with a pen in hand or an open book in front of him.

She read the same sentence over and over again:
“He who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.”

This collection drew a sea of alphabet in her mind, and her arms flailed as she drowned in the body of water.
Only the birds flying overhead could see her face looking up to the sun. Only they could see that she was crying.

☛☚

The second boy plugged himself with music: he listened to Nina Simone, whom sang beautifully next to a piano.

He noticed the boy, and the end of his pencil digging into his chin, and the tortoise frames he wore. He noticed him staring.

The boy tore off a piece of paper and wrote his name, his address, his phone number. He folded it five times so that it became the size of a quarter. He wanted to use it like currency and put it in a gum ball machine, or a toy machine, or a fortune machine.

He wanted his wish to come back to him.

☛☚

The only voice in the air came from the waitress.
“Hi, How ya doing today? Fine Fine. What can I getya?”

☛☚

The boy noticed the second boy put his books away. He watched him push his chair under the table. He saw his facial expression say something like, ‘no, no - that’s stupid. I’m gonna leave now.’

So he left, and the boy wanted to see him once more, but he didn’t. Elvis walked down the street.

The girl noticed how much attention the first boy was giving to the window. She packed her bags. She stood up; her eyes crashed with his!

She looked at him and he looked at her; she rolled her eyes, as if that’s what she wanted to say all along, “I ROLL MY EYES AT YOU!”

She swung her bag and it landed on her back. She walked out. Her chin was up. Her eyes were blue.

☛☚

The boy was left alone in the coffee shop. Customers came in and ordered things to take-away.

He gathered up a ball of saliva and spat on the table. He dove his finger into the effervescent pool and drew circles. When the liquid dried, he got up and left. He walked down the street with soaked shoes, lifting his arms up as if he were about to swan dive.

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