myskine.

I can picture the tiny, black notebook- its flaccid elastic unable to deter prying eyes.

Shiny and square, gleaming against the lurid vinyl of the train seat.

"Ice-Cream for the Uninitiated.
Two scoops.
Ignorant Bliss.
A sprinkle of Nuts.
Cherry-on-top."

He was beyond ice-cream. He leaned with accusing grace.
Speaking to the girl in the candy stripe pinny and ridiculous hat, over his shoulder.
Who could blame him?
Who could blame me- standing there watching the train trundle away. My poor notebook halfway to someone else now.
Across from the station I was living life.
Weeks of glances, shy smiles, crooked grins (Thank you romance novels)

He was made of guttural sounds.
I was gutter-all.
Missing my train, in this unwholesome alley. One of his hands kept us propped against the wrought iron fence, the other moved up and down with practiced urgency. He was playing an instrument, begging for the right sound. (Oh, curse those romance novels!)

I was watching the air escape me. It unfurled like ribbons and disappeared into the cool night air.

Completely undone.


And all I can picture is the tiny. black notebook.