Mark's Pages

November 4, 2003:

For two or three nanoseconds: lunchroom tables, voices, a blue and gray wash of everyday faces. Then: yellow-gold light, so intense that it displaces every other sensation, and your four eyes lock together, yours and hers, and there's nothing in your mind but the soft golden glow that surrounds her.

You smell like her shampoo. You feel the lingering touch of her skin on the sensitive tips of your fingers. The lovely music of her breathing echoes in your memory.

All day the office women stop and glance, checking you out, sometimes sneakily through furtive glances, other times more directly. Probably because you haven't shaved in three nights.

Quickly through the lunch line. Grab a sandwich, grab a tray, run back to your cubicle avoiding her glance, to eat where she can't see you, where you can be safe.