thought #160- lisp

i still remember the first time we met. i was minding my own business, sitting at a cafe i regularly (though not religiously) visited. my eyes were fixated upon the first few pages of prozac nation. the prose drowning me with its hypnotic, suffocating swell. i had one hand cupped against my skim mocha, the other wrapped around my book. i paid no attention to my surroundings, enveloped by physical and mental warmth. a careless body bumped into me and i was automatically removed from my hypnosis. he wore a collared shirt. tight pants and those leather boat shoes. i thought he looked geeky. slightly ridiculous. in between handsome and unusual. he kind of had a feminine twang to his grimace. he noticed my attention and blinked repeatedly. i thought he had something in his eye.

"sorry" he said. i heard a soft lisp.

i returned to my book but noticed the time. i left in a hurry and dropped my pen.

three weeks later my friend asked me to attend a pub gig. it was one of those warm spring nights, filled with sparkling wine and bare shoulders. we were smoking cigarettes, our backs against cool walls ridden with peeling paint. then he went on stage. armed with his weapon; armed with a guitar. he wore a collared shirt. tight pants and those leather boat shoes. it was him. i could not mistake it. i hadn't seen him for three weeks.

he strummed a few chords before continuing to greet the cheerful crowd. his lisp amplifyed as if he were making love to the microphone.

"this is a song i wrote, three weeks ago. about a girl, i didn't even meet. i know it sounds awkward because it is. i'm not a creep, i promise. i just kind of wish i said hello or something. or at least returned the pen she dropped. i'm sorry i let a stranger like her go as a stranger. this song's called sorry." i heard that soft lisp.

i remember feeling somewhat touched. somewhat frightened. somewhat freaked out. some what adored. he sat at the bar and i saw a pen sticking out of his left pocket, like a hand waving to be seen.  i approached him and said "i believe that's my pen."

he looked like he had seen an apparition. i told him i enjoyed his song and that he better not let me leave as a stranger again tonight. and so he didn't. and so i got my pen back.

a week later, i read more of prozac nation reaching the lines  I’d never been one of the lucky ones. I was always single, with occasional lapses into-well, into other kinds of lapses. feeling utterly empathetic. but then a lapse becomes a reality and out of nowhere people come into your life. then suddenly feeling sorry for yourself is nonsense. he came over one day. the lisp boy with the collared shirt, tight pants and leather boat shoes. he said he wrote a new song about me and he looked away with rouge cheeks. "this song's called thank you." 

love,

ps. must find this book and movie.