Dec 06

Stale air.

Contents: hot breath, muffled coughs, wet coats, and the occasional whiff of matured fart. Checked my phone again for the time- 4 o’clock, one bar battery left. Pushing it away made that annoying, ear clawing scraping noise that brought eyes in my direction. ‘where is that noise coming from?’ Looked around like, ‘it wasn’t me, but I need to stare at whoever it was’ and then-

We made eye contact. I stared too much and she looked away, preoccupied with her work.

I saw the calculator and had an idea- nay, a grand idea! today i am a man. today i am confidant. today i have balls the size of my fists, the size of the pot brownies i had last night for funsies.

went over to her, special swagger reserved for being a pimp. “can i borrow your calculator for a minute?”

it was too easy. who says math nerds don’t have game? who’s got two thumbs and mad- good pickup skills? this guy.

later i might realize that graphing a flower is a total pussy move. later i might shit myself worrying i was too forward, too aggressive. later arin might call me a creep, and i might tell her (politely) to go fuck herself. now, i am a romantic. if i could graph a sonnet, a ballad, a box of chocolates, i’d be freakin’ Cyrano De Bergerac-ing all over this shit.

she laughed at the flower. that was to be expected. i went for it: “can i have your number?”

i got it!

p-i-m-p.

 

 

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what's eating jimmy? a blog about food. and jimmy