Running
Lingering in front of a certain book at Borders, I get The Feeling in my stomach. It reaches up to my chest, then up the back of my throat into my head, and then throughout my whole body to every single little nerve ending.
I force myself not to open it (the book). I swallow hard, turn, walk quickly, purposefully to the escalator. I hurry down, get stalled by a couple standing still and riding. I bypass them on the first floor. Head towards the glass doors that will deposit me on the street, smiling and nodding at my boy working them (tall, dyed-black hair growing out light-brown, kind eyes).
I am outside, on the sidewalk. (I sidestep an Asian man, excuse myself.) I turn towards Sutter. I take off running. I run. I am desperate, clawing, to get The Feeling out. I pound. My boots hit the metal coverings, make loud clanking sounds. Pedestrians and bums looks at me sideways and I don't care.
Half-way between Powell and Mason I run The Feeling out. Thank god that didn't take long. I pant, walk to the street crossing. If only I could run -you- out. Maybe Time will. She has run others out.
Maybe I should be referring to Time in the masculine. Since I hate them both.
Maybe I should get over that.
On the 600 block I pass a girl that lives in my building. (Short, cute, fashion major.) I give her a clipped smile of acknowledgement. She smiles back, but reluctantly. Mouth only. Eyes staying blank. She doesn't want to know me.
I pick up running again, past the 17-year-old smoking, skid to a stop in front of the dorm door. It's wedged open. Good. In the lobby. There is an elevator, waiting, empty. I dart inside. Two. Door close. Collapse and sag against the walls. Cables squealing, breathing hard.
I force myself not to open it (the book). I swallow hard, turn, walk quickly, purposefully to the escalator. I hurry down, get stalled by a couple standing still and riding. I bypass them on the first floor. Head towards the glass doors that will deposit me on the street, smiling and nodding at my boy working them (tall, dyed-black hair growing out light-brown, kind eyes).
I am outside, on the sidewalk. (I sidestep an Asian man, excuse myself.) I turn towards Sutter. I take off running. I run. I am desperate, clawing, to get The Feeling out. I pound. My boots hit the metal coverings, make loud clanking sounds. Pedestrians and bums looks at me sideways and I don't care.
Half-way between Powell and Mason I run The Feeling out. Thank god that didn't take long. I pant, walk to the street crossing. If only I could run -you- out. Maybe Time will. She has run others out.
Maybe I should be referring to Time in the masculine. Since I hate them both.
Maybe I should get over that.
On the 600 block I pass a girl that lives in my building. (Short, cute, fashion major.) I give her a clipped smile of acknowledgement. She smiles back, but reluctantly. Mouth only. Eyes staying blank. She doesn't want to know me.
I pick up running again, past the 17-year-old smoking, skid to a stop in front of the dorm door. It's wedged open. Good. In the lobby. There is an elevator, waiting, empty. I dart inside. Two. Door close. Collapse and sag against the walls. Cables squealing, breathing hard.
posted by Angela at 1:10 AM
1 Comments:
Dude, that's some great writing. You NEED to be a writer.
:)
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