Food Court Conversation

February 19, 2009
By Grania O&#39Meara BRONZE, New York, New York
Grania O&#39Meara BRONZE, New York, New York
4 articles 0 photos 0 comments

It was a first. Me. You. My friends,
That puzzled you with their mascara and
Parents with hybrid cars and dinner parties.
Their quizical eyes as I introduced you
"My friend," as they tried to read into
My voice inflections, if you were a,
Scrabble playing G rated friend,
Or a kissing in dark hallways friend.

And that is when you walked off,
Out of the store that smelled of cotton candy,
Whose jeans were too small on me,
And big on you, with your skin covered bones,
Sharp contrast to my rounded edges.
I, of course, followed, pretending it was,
Anything but relationship trouble,
"It's finals--they tired her," my explanation.

I chased after you under the florescent lights
Of the food court. "Hey,"
"I was hungry," it's your explanation,
And I know it's not a lack of food
That makes your voice clipped, harsh,
And you tell me you were just thinking,
Which is supposed to be a pre-empt to a
Serious conversation, one I cannot avoid.

You want to talk about "us", something that
I was not aware existed anymore, just like
I had no idea you'd kept my letters.
"It's fine, it's cool, it's over, whatever."
I keep telling you, avoiding your eyes,
Your green piercing eyes that are trying
To read my soul. And to peel away my lies.
"You're avoiding me, avoiding talking about it."

"There is no it. There is no us."
"It could have worked," you tell me, sorrow,
Overfills in your expressions, your regret.
And I find myself comforting you for ending it,
With me. Ending this us that you were
The one to let go of, but you are the one
To never let go. I pretend like I'm over it, like
I pretending I've forgotten those 3am conversations.

This avoidance is a mask, you see, because
Otherwise I would find myself calling you "hun",
And maybe "babe", a habit I have not yet broken,
Because your smile is disarming, and,
Memories are still to fresh in my mind,
A scab that is almost healed but still vunerable.
And now you're telling me you're sorry,
How you want there to be, maybe, someday--

An 'us' again.
And I'm opening my mouth to tell you that
I like that idea very much, but then I see,
My friends, walking up, laughing,
And I stop short, because I never did tell them
That I fell in love with a girl, with you,
That there was an 'us',
And I'm still not over it.

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