Ah, fuck. The dreaded friend zone. The half-date suggested by the other. Ambiguous to
the end. Close... so close, but you find out you were just there to watch a crappy (but hilarious) movie. Coulda been more. Could've ended with something.
A kiss? No, a fist bump, 'bama style. Walked past a group a black dudes as she got picked up. In my head I heard them: "Daaaaaaaaaaaayum," said
they. "Dayum" was right. Dragon-blue-Balls. Not like anything was gonna happen. Not like I expected something to happen. But nothing happened. Still
the freind. She's intrested in no one, but that includes be. Behind plexiglass. Preserved in acrylic. Can't get through without a hammer, but inside is
the carved egg shell you want. Right next to you, me, an hour and a half. Her arm so close. She leaned forward in her seat. Did she always do that, or was she
inching away. A connection, right there. Signals transfer, but the link never- fuck. We laugh, we whisper. The movie is terrible. She knows about just as well
as I do. Imperfection of the most perfect kind. I can persist in the freind zone. Like purgatory, neither hurt nor harm, but no rewa- not the right word.
Enlightenment? No. Just not the opposite of hurt or harm. Blank. Fist bump. Black dudes. Dayum. Other options are there, but they are just that, options. Empty
hea- souled? The fact that I'm writing train of thought just kicks it all in the junk. Blue junk. Dragon's blue junk. It's all there. Dr.
Manhhattan style memory. She didn't let me pay for the ticket. No ice cream. Wanted to see the "baby animals" at the pet store across the lot. It
closed as we walked there. I text her. "Right. Well, i mean, i really see you as a friend, you know?" I know. I don't know why, but I know. I
knew since the beggining. We talk, joking about hoboes and uteri, walking past the pet store. I text, joking about the long trodden friend zone, and the
secrets of the Y chromosone. She shouldn't feel bad about it.
That movie sucked.
That movie sucked.
