I took Edward’s text and I twisted it
into a pretzel before I baked and ate it.
“Are you always in the business of
swallowing words?” But I feign
ignorance, which is not such a
difficult thing for me to do. Ed-
ward. Edward is a brazenly thin
young man with an abstruse but
delightful sense of fashion; he
has perpetually mussed wispy
blond hair (cropped close, yet
always flying in all directions),
piercing blue eyes and an air
of omnipresence. I have per-
sonally (and privately) nick-
named him God. I’m walk-
ing between the train stop
and my apartment while
thinking about Edward
(Edward Edward Edward)
and trying not to bump
into a tree. And this
I accomplish before
falling beneath one –
a magnificent oak –
in slow motion I
just crumple like
some nobody that’s
just been shot to
death in a movie.
Lying under the
oak like I’m dead,
but first twisting
around (the grass
smelling so very
good) to squint
straight up
through the
half-shade
half-sun.
