All week long, there's been this pit in my stomach. Some kind of dark and devious spot, black, that converts my daily thoughts to anxiety. Even as I tried to rationalize my troubles away, it would not stop the process.
A nice conversation with Ms. Muffintop assuaged my restlessness, but it still remains. It's smaller and not as powerful, but it still remains.
I don't know what the future holds. Even the immediate future of mere days and weeks is blurry and without just cause to try to predict. It would be nice, though, to have a little make believe:
"My skirt ripples through the soft spring breeze; that's what it's made for after all. Though, at the moment, I don't believe my arms were made to carry all these books.
"I need them though. Research on the complexities of the criminal mind require many analyses. Though, while making my way down the steps of the library — today they're quite numerous it seems — the cost of research is a bit much on my biceps.
"A quick wind comes from the right, blowing the skirt a little higher than I'd like. To counter, I lean against the railing, steady the stack with one hand and try to pat it down with the other. No avail. The stack tips forward, forcing me to shoot ahead onto the sidewalk to keep balance. Just then — Pummeled! by some idiot on a bicycle. Books fly everywhere, and I am knocked to my knees.
The wind picks up, flipping pages over and over. In a moment, I recover enough to see that the scrap on my knee is producing a small bit of blood — my heart beats a few quick pulses in excitement. Then I see the bicyclist on the ground a few feet ahead.
" 'Hey, watch where you're going!' I said.
"He rolled to his side, then to his knees, took off his sunglasses and said: 'Sorry darling, must have lost my direction.'
"His eyes are pale brown. His hair is way too long, and I can barely see his face. He's slim, slender. I can tell right away that he would try to sleep with me if we carry on for much longer. After briefly considering the thought, I reply: 'We'll, aren't you going to help me with my books?'
"So, we stack them up on the sidewalk in two neat piles — not as neat as when I had them in my hands of course. He smiles when he spots the book about crime and the media when dealing with serial killers.
" 'That book reminds me of a girl I used to know. Real sharp reporter.' He speaks with a juvenile but endearing southern drawl. 'She was as smart as she was pretty. Big blue eyes. Used to live just a block away from me, ... back when I was in school.'
" ... what was I talking about?"
