He wrote down every conversation that they ever had. They were all piled into a notebook, arranged by date, scrawled in messy cursive. His favorites were marked with blue marker; just a little dot of ink, spreading its veins into the edges of the page.
April 19th, 1998: 19th Century English Literature, University of California - Berkeley, 9:13 a.m.
HER: You realize that you're wearing your t-shirt inside out?
HIM: I didn't have time to fix it.
HER: What were you so busy thinking about?
HIM:
HIM: Do you want me to be honest?
HER: Of course.
HIM:
HIM:
HIM: Well.
HIM: Sex.
HER: A very interesting topic.
HER: Can I ask why?
HIM: Because I'd just had it.
HER: I should've guessed.
HER: A handsome one like you? It was obvious.
HIM: How was it obvious?
HER: Your hair. It's nine a.m., you're in your first class of the day, and you haven't fixed it.
HIM: What if I just forgot?
HER:
HER:
HER: A handsome one like you? I wouldn't believe it for a minute.
♠️
April 21st, 1998: 19th Century English Literature, University of California - Berkley, 9:07 a.m.
HER: Well, well. Your shirt's on right.
HIM: And?
HER: Must I answer such petty questions?
HIM:
HIM:
HIM: I suppose not.
HER: Good.
HER: But what happened? No one to spend the night with?
HIM: She's out of town.
HER: Shame.
HIM:
HIM: Is it?
HER: It's always a shame when the one person you're having sex with is gone.
HER: That's why you should have backups.
HER:
HER: It's only logical.
HIM:
HIM: Are you making me an offer?
HER: Don't flatter yourself. You might be handsome, but I am far beyond your reach.
YOU ARE READING
broken bikes
Poetrypoetry is a vice. ➳ 2014 watty awards winner for poetry ➳ gorgeous cover by @mountainy
