There is this red lava lamp in my room, and it still has her fingerprints on it from the time we laid on my bed talking about how Elvis really wasn’t that great looking and all of a sudden the red light caught her eye.
First I should tell you that I used to think she was gorgeous, hard to breathe around. That changes everything, of course.
I brought the thing down from a high shelf so she could touch it and so I could see how she looked with the crimson making her face glow more than it already did. She said she always thought lava lamps were beautiful, and I just shrugged. I said comets and stars were beautiful. She shrugged. And laughed. And we ended up outside that night, both of us looking for something in the other that we never really found. I wonder if she knew how close I was to kissing her.
Now she is a name in an address book, scrawled in gel pen. She is a memory, or a hallway friend…the kind you occasionally wave to and keep walking, almost frustrated by the past.
I always write stuff like this, I’m sorry. There are other things to write about, and I’ll find them. Eventually.
Someone…grab my hand; pull me out of this funk.