Wednesday, April 14, 2004

200 Word Wednesday: Half a memory

I was sitting on a bench, the artsy yet institutional kind commissioned for public universities and corporate outdoor smoking areas. Some conglomeration of brick and concrete, angle and curve. It was before I knew you, before I had this life full of short jaunts and disconnects, before I knew I was a writer. Back when everything seemed too good to be true, back when moments were scary instead of the scary of years and decades of blank in front of me. I remember watching people and thinking only of what they thought of me, of my clothes, of my unwashed hair, of my posture and my pen scribbling in my notebook. In everything there was fear. Fear of what I could write next, fear of what I might say in class that afternoon, fear of who I might eat lunch with. Nervousness and sweaty palms, everything a hesitation.

I left three weeks later, backpack strapped securely, hugging my pillow, walking slowly behind my parents. From that moment, there is one face. Max, with his dark hair and acne, looking down at my tear-streaked face. Max, whom I’d only shared a couple brief, unimportant conversations with. “You gonna be okay, H?”

Heather at 9:20 PM

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