From the Rooftop
He waits on the corner of 17th and Penn, white shirt, crisp and clean, Ipod plays Jay-Z - cool and confident. It's a regular Wednesday, beautiful and warm. A slight breeze blow in from the west, but nothing unusual. It's early April and tourist season is in full swing. The retired who have too much time in their hands and the middle schools kids who have too much energy in their hands descend like hungry sight seeing vultures on our meticulously clean, Roman Inspired, North West, DC.
The e-mail said lunch, rooftop. Is it a date?
He did kiss her, or she him, or maybe they just both kissed each other on that Saturday night. They definitely danced. He had spun her and twisted her in an an intricate and beautiful pattern of steps all night while his heart wound up in knots. She's beautiful, he thought. Don't hurt me, she thought. Who could hurt someone so sweet, he thought. Please, don't let me down, he thought. He's cute. He had forgotten that they were there that night for his Birthday celebration. There would have been more shots, dumb faces and frat brother antics. Things were different tonight and his friends knew. They let him dance with the cute red haired girl. And her friends, who knew him as the nice guy, did the same. And they had all danced too, or at least watched the boy and the girl dance right up to the intimate moment where he felt like undoing all those knots in his heart - he kissed her and she leaned in, thinking Finally.
An old woman with her fanny pack walks buy with her matching accessory of a husband. Both in blue jump suites. She in platinum blond hair and he in a black taupe. And she walks up without him even seeing her stride across the street. In a white flowery spring dress, hair down, light and beautiful, she says Hi. And like that, Lunch had become a date.
He hurridly puts away the Ipod, thinking she probably thinks I'm a yuppie tool, and wow, she's like spring. And in that moment winter and all it's harsh storms had melted away leaving absolutely no marks or residue. She smiled like an opponent up to a challenge and thought, I want to make him mine.
They ordered salads and ate on the roof that afternoon. The conversation revolved around little things like work and the gym, especially since they both work in the same area and go to the same gym, but the metaphors were deeper.
He, "so, weren't we suppose to go to Yoga."
She, " Yeah, but don't you remember getting really drunk on your birthday?"
Might as well have said:
He, "I wanted to see you in tight pants and then show off"
She, "Do you remember kissing the night before when we had planned yoga?"
And they talked more and more, over salads from Cosi. He was late getting back to work and so was she, but so what. They talked about their families, their past and plans and dreams. Movies and books. Camping, music and life! The Westerly breeze cooled them from the hot sun. They sat over looing the Old Executive Offices and down to Ohio Drive, the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Mermorial.
Life wasn't meant for tourists.
The e-mail said lunch, rooftop. Is it a date?
He did kiss her, or she him, or maybe they just both kissed each other on that Saturday night. They definitely danced. He had spun her and twisted her in an an intricate and beautiful pattern of steps all night while his heart wound up in knots. She's beautiful, he thought. Don't hurt me, she thought. Who could hurt someone so sweet, he thought. Please, don't let me down, he thought. He's cute. He had forgotten that they were there that night for his Birthday celebration. There would have been more shots, dumb faces and frat brother antics. Things were different tonight and his friends knew. They let him dance with the cute red haired girl. And her friends, who knew him as the nice guy, did the same. And they had all danced too, or at least watched the boy and the girl dance right up to the intimate moment where he felt like undoing all those knots in his heart - he kissed her and she leaned in, thinking Finally.
An old woman with her fanny pack walks buy with her matching accessory of a husband. Both in blue jump suites. She in platinum blond hair and he in a black taupe. And she walks up without him even seeing her stride across the street. In a white flowery spring dress, hair down, light and beautiful, she says Hi. And like that, Lunch had become a date.
He hurridly puts away the Ipod, thinking she probably thinks I'm a yuppie tool, and wow, she's like spring. And in that moment winter and all it's harsh storms had melted away leaving absolutely no marks or residue. She smiled like an opponent up to a challenge and thought, I want to make him mine.
They ordered salads and ate on the roof that afternoon. The conversation revolved around little things like work and the gym, especially since they both work in the same area and go to the same gym, but the metaphors were deeper.
He, "so, weren't we suppose to go to Yoga."
She, " Yeah, but don't you remember getting really drunk on your birthday?"
Might as well have said:
He, "I wanted to see you in tight pants and then show off"
She, "Do you remember kissing the night before when we had planned yoga?"
And they talked more and more, over salads from Cosi. He was late getting back to work and so was she, but so what. They talked about their families, their past and plans and dreams. Movies and books. Camping, music and life! The Westerly breeze cooled them from the hot sun. They sat over looing the Old Executive Offices and down to Ohio Drive, the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Mermorial.
Life wasn't meant for tourists.
posted by Class Officers at
11:47 PM
1 Comments:
nice, Dat :)
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