Sunday, August 29, 2010

Chagrin



I walk past the halls in serious admiration of how fleeting everything I see is. The faces that look, or just maybe take a glimpse, or the bags ensconcing incongruous things, which sometimes fall and everything released explodes. The shoes that make the drone squeaky sounds that pass eventually, soothing to the ears. Everything.

I think I walked here yesterday with my pink slippers from China, which were jeered to the hilt just hampered by my deep stride. I think I greeted him with a rash smile and winked for a moment. I think I saw him wink too, or was it because he had dust in his right eye. I think I stumbled slowly, and caught my balance and went on.

I don’t care at all. High school seemed gray and bleak as wet cement on a drizzling afternoon. I think it was only yesterday I had my first toke there behind the maintenance closet. I think it was just hours ago that Dear John brought his lips, dabbed with Doritos excrements, to mine.

BRIIINNNNNGGGGG… BRIIINNNNNGGGGG… BRIIINNNNNGGGGG… went the crimson, rusty, metal bell for the millionth time. I push the mahogany door open, air-conditioned air chafes my skin, and my body shudders inconspicuously as if I never been there the day before. I bend and slide graceful, lithe as I do each time, into the seat that four years had kept me, myself.

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