IN MY THOUGHTS
She drives down Memorial,
The wind tossing her hair back and forth,
The breeze cupping her face in its hands.
She pulls into Schlotzsky’s Deli,
Draped in serenity,
She walks in solitude
Into the deli and orders lunch for
One.
Finds a table for one.
Waits for her sandwich.
Roast beef on rye with Swiss cheese and lettuce.
A guy with unconventional looks walks in.
He’s not particularly good looking.
But he has caught her eye.
Something about him.
He walks from his apartment to the deli down the block.
His stomach growls.
His camera bag hangs from his shoulder.
He wishes it weren’t so bulky.
Oh well.
Perhaps he will get the chance to take some good pictures after eating.
A current of air blows his hair into his eyes.
He thinks about how maybe he should have brushed it.
No matter.
The walk seems to take forever and finally he is there, ordering.
Roast beef on rye with Swiss cheese and lettuce.
He closes his eyes and lets himself be swept over by the smells.
Man.
Receipt in hand, he searches for a table.
He finds one,
Next to a girl in a soft blue sweater.
Her cheeks are flushed.
He wonders why she keeps looking at him
And then gets uncomfortable.
He feels he’s not much to look at
So it can’t be good that she is staring at him.
She watches him pay for his sandwich.
She tries, with no avail, to figure out what is so engrossing about him.
Her cheeks flush as she catches his eye,
Speculates why his eyes are averted to the floor.
What’s in the bag?
He sits down next to her.
Do you mind if I sit with you?
She asks.
She doesn’t want to eat alone today.
Sure.
He responds.
Why is this girl talking to him?
Their sandwiches are ready.
They realize they’ve ordered the same thing.
Interesting.
They eat
And the conversation is more delicious than the sandwiches are.
Roast beef on rye with Swiss cheese and lettuce.
Dialogue concerning the beauty of the color crimson.
The sandwich tastes better with every bite.
The discourse is more fulfilling with every word.
He is now more at ease.
Her cheeks are less flushed.
Can I take your picture?
He asks.
Umm, sure.
She replies.
So that is what is in the bag.
She looks at him,
A shy smile on her face,
And lets him take her picture.
He seems as though he is in his natural surroundings with his camera.
Perhaps his artistic sensitivity is what has caught her eye.
No matter.
It delights her.
He takes his camera out,
Slender fingers adjust the settings.
The lighting is perfect.
He takes the picture,
Surprised at how much at ease he is.
More talking.
She looks at her watch.
It’s time to go.
She has an appointment.
So they bid each other farewell
And go their separate ways.
They don’t exchange phone numbers.
Don’t even catch each other’s name.
She gets into her car,
And drives to the doctor’s office.
He slings his bag over his shoulder,
And walks past the bridge to the park.
A week goes by.
She gets a phone call from the doctor.
Bad news.
Her sickness is terminal.
She collapses to the floor and weeps.
He is in the dark room.
The roll he took last week is finished and he is
Developing it.
The picture of the girl he took last week came out.
It’s brilliant.
Something about the eyes.
Something about her.
He stirs the paper in the water,
Waiting for the other photograph to develop,
And wonders how she is doing.
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