On Monday,(t had taken me all weekend to get over the fact that I made-out with Josh Groban) I sit alongside Adam on some grassy campus steps. "You what?!" he screams, after I tell him what happened. I shush Adam, saying,"I know you're upset, but-" He cuts me off, laughing. "Upset? Girl, you needed him, and you're welcome for the outfit." I sigh, thanking him. "Adam, look. You CANNOT tell people. We can't let any tabloids get ahold of this. Josh is a private person, most of the time, and I'm still in college. Could you imagine how much papparazzi we'd have?" He grins. "Yeah." Rolling my eyes, I say, "I'm serious. Neither of us wants that problem, am I right?" Adam sighs. "I guess not. Okay. Your secret is safe with me." I squirm. "Well, it's not really a sec-" I start, but my phone rings.I pick it up, checking the caller ID. It's Josh. I make a signal towards Adam, and he smiles. He whispers, "Get him, girl.", going to hit on a guy sitting to our left. I hold the cell phone to my ear."Hey, Josh." He answers, "Hey, you want to get some lunch?" Of course my stomach would growl then. "Sure, where at?" A short pause. "Meet me outside the Met at twelve." Beaming I agree. "Okay." It was only eleven-twenty, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art was ten minutes, but I headed over there right after he called me. Sitting on a bench outside of it, I cooked up a poem, describing the five senses with beautiful imagery. Just as I finish it, someone sits down next to me. I turn, and smile at Josh. "What're you writing?" He asks. "Oh, nothing. Where are we eating?" He stands up, pulling a picnic basket out from under the bench. "Ta-da! This way to Central Park!" I laugh. "A picnic in the park. How romantic." Flashing the pearly whites, Josh leads me several blocks, until we arrive at Central Park, as promised. Taking a deep breath in, he exclaims, "Hope you like nature." After laying down a blanket, we plunk ourselves down at the base of a tree, with enough shade, and the perfect angle for people-watching. Josh pulls out a bottle of wine, some sandwiches. The last thing he pulls out is two slices of cheesecake. "I made it myself." Josh says. Everything is delicious, so I compliment him on his choices. Especially the decision to make my sandwich with swiss, and chicken on rye. The red wine is like velvet, sliding around my mouth . Don't even get me started on the cheesecake. "You made this yourself?" Josh nods. "Good, isn't it?" I nod back, vigorously. Soon as we finish, he asks me, "What were you writing, when I showed up?" I cross my legs, and respond, "Oh, just a poem. Would you like to hear it?" It's Josh's turn to nod vigorously. I laugh. "Okay." Clearing my throat, I begin:
Have you ever seen a budding rose?
Small and perfect
A shade that matched the blood
drawn from my fingertip
when I grabbed it.
Much like you, beautiful from afar,
till I came too close, and you wounded me.
Have you ever smelled the grass of a summers day?
Lying on a hill, inhaling the sweet aroma of the earth, letting the
scent envelope my being, as if it were your arms, which I long to have around me.
Have you ever heard a love song, and wondered who it was for?
A slow, sad tale written by a starry-eyed admirer, sung beside the tune of my beating heart, bruised and aching.
Have you ever tasted the rain of a spring storm?
The kind that blows the leaves
here and there, scattering them
like old memories, and wetting
the edges,
like tears on my cheeks.
And have you ever felt a love,
so deep and beautiful,
that even the flowers could not believe it, for they wilted when you stopped loving me, and they no longer grow in the garden of my heart.
I look up, to see Josh mesmerized by my art. Taking a deep breath, I ask, "So. What'd you think?" He scoots over beside me, and replies, "You wrote that? But it's so mournful. Tell me the story behind it." "Actually, that one didn't come from personal experience. I thought of most young women, how they feel when a man leaves them. Most of my poems are from stuff that's happened to me, but not this one." Josh ponders this, and demands, "Read more. Please?" So, our lunch quickly turns into a poetry reading, ending with a piece I wrote about the first guy I fell in love with. After that poem, I see Josh, with a few tears on his cheeks. "When did you write it?", he questions, softly. I explain, that when I was thirteen, I worked on a musical, alongside a crazy talented senior. He was eighteen, and I was madly in love with him, but it never worked out. At fourteen, I put it down on paper. "He was I lot like you, into Guns & Roses. He told me that he wanted to learn guitar. I hope he did. Such a good guy." Slipping his hand into mine, Josh squeezes my fingers. Then it dawned on me. I look at him, and decide,"I'm like the real-life Malcolm Wyatt." He laughs, remembering his 'Ally McBeal' character. Josh pours a bit more wine. Once it's gone, we lay on the blanket, hands clasped, feeling the breeze, and inhaling the grass of s summers day.
