On the way to the therapist I thought about all the things I wouldn't say. I wouldn't say I knew. What kind of women, girl would I sound like? I knew I didn't trust him, that he wasn't to be trusted. I was lonely, and tired of it. He was cute, sexy. It wasn't really settling.
I walked in to the coffee shop. I use to go here all the time. They had real art on the wall, not pictures of coffee cups. I was going to give them one of my paintings. It was called peach slice moon. One time I saw a moon that looked more like heavenly produce. It was magical, so I painted it.
I waited in line impatiently. It was nice to see that hadn't vanished with everything else. I still hated waiting. I watched slowly a different combination of color and clothing move away. I smiled weakly at the counter help. She had a unique face. Perhaps my eyes lingered too long on it. I wanted to paint her face . Her hair was pushed entirely away from her face. It was just so open, exposed. Her forehead was to high for that style. But there was an innocent , openness to her eyes maybe I was envious.
I don't remember ordering or the motions of counting out change and forking it over. But their was a hot weight in my hand. As I waited for the bus I shifted the cup between hands. I suddenly noticed I wasn't alone. There was a couple. They were not new lovers. They had nothing to prove. They didn't need to be all over each other. They barely touched. She leaned into his body and his body met hers. They had what people call a secert smile, a private smile from ear to ear.
I didn't see the bus come. I just watched the turn of the lover's heads. They linked hands and floated on the bus. I followed them.
I liked people watching on the bus. I sat up on the front now but I couldn't resist turned around looking at all the people. Short people, tall people, skinny people, fat people, white people, black people, purple people. Two old women chatted something about " babies having babies" . There was a group of teenage boys dressed in baggy jeans and hoodies, pushing and shoving. The obese bus driver tells them to keep it down, but they don't. Nothing new. Same old same old.
I can't resist at least one more time watching the lovers. They are talking. Just talking. There private smiles hidden and saved for later. I wish I could see where there hands were. I wonder if they are holding hands. How are they holding hands? Folded or entertwined? This was what I wanted to talk to my therapist about. Intimacy.