Watching a channel. Watching no channel. Listening to the pipes hiss. Listening to no pipes. Chewing a piece of gum. Chewing no piece. Waiting on her call, when she will explain to me why she ended things, and how they might one day start up again, taking care to mention that it would be in my interest to wear the brown boots in case we were ever to meet. Waiting on no call. Counting the seconds at the same rate as the clock, tick tick, tick tick. Counting no seconds. Imagining ourselves younger, not yet attached, available to one another, smoke rising off cigarettes toward a ceiling that we know is nothing more than a temporary blockage of sky and stars. Imagining no one younger. Keeping a list of all the things I am doing but more importantly all the things I am not doing. Keeping no list. Taking a chance that in writing all this down I will miss her face at the window, and her expression, half-playful, half-pleading, as she asks me to open it so she can crawl through and tell me about her newest invention, a card-shuffler that instead randomly disarranges thoughts and feelings. Taking no chances.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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