TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
07.22.03, tuesday night
During my nap, I dreamt that I was serving espresso and Red Stripes to faceless customers. I woke up, thinking, That'll be four dollars, sir.
. . .
On Saturday, I spied S through the window of a copy shop in Berkeley, photocopying. Pale under dark hair and angular, like a scarecrow, I once thought. I didn't bother to catch his eye or exchange words. The last time I saw him, his eyes glinted with disappointment upon meeting Jimmy; he rushed off, promising to talk later but we never did. That tense, tentative accord (digressive, rigorously intellectual conversations, oblique encounters where nothing but everything was actually said, etc.) could never resume. The memory of his disappointment and the memory of my discomfort at his disappointment would remain, there in the same place, between us.