New Year
“When I was fifteen I wrote love poems for a girl I never met.”
“You what? Wait, what?”
“I learned her name because someone once said it when I was standing nearby.”
“Wow.”
“What, like you never wrote poetry?”
“Well, I was once a fourteen year old girl, of course I wrote poetry.”
“Okay then.”
“You were never a fourteen year old girl. I mean, you weren’t, right?”
“Oh, you so funny. Funny girl, you.”
“So what happened?”
“What happened?”
“With the poems. The girl. What happened?”
“I mailed them to her. And then I waited.”
“You waited.”
“I know.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“And?”
“After a few days I figured she must have gotten them, right? But I guess she didn’t figure out who wrote them.”
“You didn’t sign them.”
“God no. Of course not.”
“Oh my.”
“So I figured, either she’s at the store – her father owned this little grocery and she worked there sometimes – either she’s at the store, or she’ll be there soon, right? So I just walked around where she would see me.”
“You paced.”
“Back and forth.”
“In front of the store.”
“And her mother kept poking her head out of the store all, ‘did you lose something? Are you looking for something?”
“Oh no.”
“And the first time it’s like she was concerned, and then it’s like she was mocking me.”
“Because why wouldn’t she?”
“Because I was a gangly, awkward teenage boy obviously waiting for her daughter?”
“You should have just painted a bullseye on your forehead and gotten it over with.”
“So after a while the mom walks out with her arm around Beth – that’s her name, Beth – and the mom says, ‘he says he’s lost something but he won’t say what.’ And then, ‘Have you lost your poems?'”
“Fuck me.”
“Right. So then Beth says, ‘did you send me poems?’ and I don’t know if she just said it once, or what, but I hear it like it’s shouted across the Grand Canyon, you know? DID YOU SEND ME POEMS POEMS POEMS POEMS.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“So I fainted.”
“You fainted.”
“Face first. Boom down. I wasn’t even conscious enough to try and break my own fall. Just boom. Down.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Well… you know… I feel that way sometimes. You know, like, ‘how can I possibly get out of this situation? Oh look! There’s a window I can fling myself out of!’ Except there’s never a handy window when you need one. Fainting would work though. I mean, sort of.”
“Not really though.”
“No. But for a moment.”
“I suppose.”
“Hmm.”
“Yeah.”
“So, why did you tell me this story, exactly?”
“I don’t know. Does there have to be a reason?”
“Nope. No reason necessary. Seems like there’d be one, though.”
“Not this time.”
“Okay. Hey, was that a falling star?”
“Eh, maybe. I think it was just some failed fireworks.”
“Oh. Well that’s sad.”
“Is it?”
“You live your entire life for just one moment and then look what happens. Pfft.”
“Yeah.”
“Is one way of thinking about it.”
“A depressing-as-shit way of thinking about it, you mean.”
“Is it? I suppose it is.”
“Anyway. Happy New Year, you.”
“Happy New Year.”
“You know, you need to leave me room to be an asshole.”
“I don’t want you to be an asshole to me.”
“I know. I don’t want to be an asshole to you, but I need room for it. Just in case.”
“Okay.”
“Do you understand what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“Okay.”
Cynthia Lugo
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