I’ve been coming here quite often, your cherry Chapstick left a mark on the straw paper you helped pull off for me. I kept a piece of it just to remember you, Jay, the patch on your diner cloth. You’re the cutest girl in this pit and you carry yourself around like you know it. I’d do the same if I were you… I’d like to sit by you on a warm evening at the theater chairs and ignore the hour and a half film to just side gaze at your defined cheek bones and curling episodes of brown-golden hair lines while every once in an occasion you turn to me and catch my eyes.
Sorry, this is supposed to be short and brief, but you probably deserve a book of poems, or books if I could. That asshole in the kitchen who treats you like shit always burns my hashbrowns, overcooks the eggs and “accidentally” dumps a pound of salt all over the sausage, basically your diner is shitty… Needless to say, I only come here for you.
I go on the rest of the day dealing with high blood-pressure headaches and bacterial black coffee just to catch a glimpse of you. I stutter and forget my order when you look down on me, as if you’re the pedestal and I’m the stone, oh I’m stoned by you that’s for sure… You just sing with your honey-molten telephone operator voice of yours “I guess it’ll be the usual if you’ll stay quite like that…”
Look, I know I’m not the first guy to hit on you, but I’d like to ask you when was the last time you were worshiped in the dead of midnight? I’m sleeplessly lucid dreaming of you. Or how about a painting of you hanging over my one-room apartment? I dried the oil on it myself. Not washing my hands for days on end after you mistakenly touch it with the tip of your polished nails…
Your fragrance, your ponytail, your ankles flexing, your fingers playing with the number 2 pencil, your eye brows cornering, your earrings bending, your hazel eyes, your Goddess-designed nose, your smart-but-acting-dumb moments, your “I work two jobs” line to reject me moments, your playful smile, your Victorian handwriting I can tell you’re cultured… Your yawn behind the counter on a 6 AM Monday, or your palms touching my cup feeling the cooling thermal equilibrium between your touch and mine. Excuse the “cutie” line, but I’m a good man…
Call me? 1-800-NOTACREEP
THE EVERYDAY© NAPKINS – The best Napkins money can buy!