the boy behind the counter has an electric electric white cloud smile. he will make my organic locally grown sandwich while i sit outside pretending to have important things to do. he takes twenty minutes at least and then we have a fumbling exchange during which my hopes for having a phone number thrust into my palm are dashed like salt over the shoulder.
walk home plastic fork teetering balanced on the black styrofoam lid i can smell the pesto this boy made for me leaking up from the box and i think he must've taken so damn long because he was writing me an eloquent love letter and when i open the box i will find it, black ink on bleached napkin placed affectionately atop toasted ciabatta, evergreen pesto spilling out the sides, just for me. a grin spreads like butter on humid concrete and i kick a rock into the street.
walk on walk on though i realize if he did i wouldn't call him. he'd be too forward too eager too into me what a turn-off and the memory of that pretty wide smile with the precisely crooked tooth on each end is replaced with a face similar to ex boyfriends and ex boyfriend wannabe's.
so i have to revisit and hope he's working and maybe over the course of the summer we'll talk three more times tops because i never go to common grounds and mostly because a substantial relationship requires time which i dont have or is it patience?
