thinking about a boy while sitting on the curb
i didn't edit this and i'm not going to.
i’m writing this on my iphone while waiting for my ubereats order from Luke at seven-twenty in the evening on a saturday night. my black work shoes is dusty, blending in with the mucky asphalt. the humdrum of the melbourne suburbs is dull and melodramatic, just rubber wheels speeding seventy in a sixty zone and mothers scratching their heads in the kitchen. my body aches after having pushed around stacks of trolley carts for eight hours. i’m thinking about a boy. i know nothing ever good comes from thinking about a boy, but i swear it’s not an overwhelming infatuation or death-defying romantic crush because i haven’t had them in a long time, maybe due to brain fog and overall numbness of the 21st century, but just a thought, a seedling, a what if, a that must be nice. i’m thinking about a lot of things. lazy morning kisses. standing in the dull kitchen light. my head in the crook of his shoulder. i roll my eyes, my own stupidity reflecting myself on the screen. it’s so cliche and overdone. i’m a broken record thinking about the same thing every three months, pondering about the same boy with the same archetype: funny, pecucilar and nice, but always floating within the outer orbits of my realm. it’s better that way, because nothing can ever come from it and it can stay within the realm of possibilities and daydreams. it’ll be a sweet thing i can visit within the corners in the back of my head when i’m bored because the thought is always better than reality. we could be good together, i think, we could be the couple that’s walking their dog across the street, with that hideous chihuahua wearing pyjamas. they’re saying something to each other and one of them laughs. they turn the other way and they disappear from my horizon. would we have kids together? maybe we’ll be good uncles, but i have no idea. but i would not be like my father, who is short-tempered and a hollow shell of a man, who doesn’t know himself out of being a lonesome dad. i won’t be like my mother either, who is narrow-minded and insular. i’ll be myself, made up of hands who’ve touched me along the way. i’ll be good for you, i can. i’ll drive you to work every morning and look over your shoulder to see what you’re reading. you’ll tell me what new puzzle you’re doing and i’ll roll my eyes, even though i know that i’ll play it the next day. A notification rips me away from my wonderful prose. it’s hinge. someone matched with me. mark, 22, sales assistant. good looking. he’s nice, i guess, in a sort of way any man is. another notification. my order is arriving soon from nene’s chicken. it’s not his favourite place. what a shame. what a bore.