Some women cannot be categorized. It’s the gleam in her eyes
as she sits next to you, when a single sideways look tells you degrees
in physiology, psychology, and even physics are worthless. It’s when she
loosens a string in her blouse and glances at you, daring you to do all the
things you’ve dreamed of—knowing full well you won’t be able to keep up.
That’s the problem with us college boys. We frame our lives in rectangular wooden caskets, keep track of the latest restaurant openings, maybe even attend weekly poker nights. Nowhere do we envision the woman who shimmies when she shouldn’t, discarding civilization’s rules with a three-second dance. She’s seen our kind before—too often, sadly—and her eyes still gleam.
That’s the problem with us college boys. We frame our lives in rectangular wooden caskets, keep track of the latest restaurant openings, maybe even attend weekly poker nights. Nowhere do we envision the woman who shimmies when she shouldn’t, discarding civilization’s rules with a three-second dance. She’s seen our kind before—too often, sadly—and her eyes still gleam.
When she goes to the balcony for a smoke, I stay inside, a
glass door separating our worlds. No matter how high the story, others look
down on us, drafting rules to keep us in place. My three rectangular wooden
caskets hem me in, creaking in tongues I can’t use to communicate. I pay
respects to the undertakers by saying nothing, hoping she’ll silence their dirge
with the sound of her voice. Her phone rings while I knead her back, and she
answers, making plans for hours my eyes won’t open, not even on a Friday
night.
She leaves, and suddenly, I'm hungry. After I return from eating alone, the room feels cavernous and dark. Like Plato’s Cave, my eyes try
to adjust but cannot. The gleam is gone, and I’ve learned fire comes in many
forms; also, that sometimes, all it helps you see are empty spaces and the dancing shadows you’ll miss.
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