This is a piece I wrote when we spent the day observing people and doing writing exercises in Iowa City. It is currently untitled.
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It’s not a day to be alone; even the trees know it, long limbs reaching out for each other, leaves flirting with the wind. I can see it everywhere; the grass smiles at the sun, the fence posts hold hands. It’s spring in October. Alone, I know what those who share my condition must be thinking. On days like today, you can’t look up; if you look up, you’ll never get to class, you’ll collapse in the grass and worship the sun, you’ll call that guy you are supposed to be forgetting about. You’ll see that couple over there, and you’ll know how they look at each other without even seeing their faces, and you’ll wonder if maybe love does exists, it just doesn’t exist for you. You must look down, do not engage, caution, danger! You do not want to look up. It’s a day that will tempt you to forget everything else.
That couple, they’ve seen days like this before. They sit facing the sun, their almost-forgotten friend. The tree behind them blushes valentine red. Her knees flap together with joy as he reaches for her, her arms curl around his arm, enveloping this piece of him because it is something to be saved. They linger in this moment; even when they stand to leave, they hold each other for a moment, arms around his neck like a middle school dance. They leave, fingers laced, the shortest daisy chain I’ve seen. When they disappear from view, I try not to let my mind follow them.
“Christie?” The name breaks the air, breaks the thought. I look up to see a face full of kind regard. In a strange city, it is almost disorienting; it takes me a moment to realize her mistake. Despite this, I cannot correct her; I want to be Christie. I don’t want to see the disappointment flood out the warmth. I smile as it does.
“I’m sorry!” She says, and scurries away, embarrassed.
“It’s okay!” I reply. Alone again, the silence seems so much louder.
Ginny Boyles
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