July 9, 2015 by Manny Wordsmith
Who the f*#k is this woman?
With the looks of a young Gwyneth Paltrow, mixed with Gwen Stacy, and the height of Gwendoline Christie?
Who the f*#k is this tall drink of water amazon, with Barbie Stilts and hair like California sunshine?
Who you be?
I just want to know. You’re beautiful, like distractingly beautiful. Like walk into poles on the way to 3rd period beautiful. Like, PLEASE STOP SMILING I CAN’T HEAR YOUR WORDS beautiful.
Do I not go out enough? And is distractingly even a word?
I’m off step, at the office late and sweaty, with bits of an apple-filled Nurti-
Grain bar on my lips. I’m not a wreck, not yet at least, instead I’m that muffled moment when all your hair and loose change fly in the air before the wreck. Yeah, that. If I had known about you, a shower would’ve happened. But…
No one tells me shit.
Models just walk in and occupy space like IKEA furniture and I don’t even get a text!? Or a tweet!? Or a goddamn Snap!?
I adjust my hoodie, jeans, vans combo like if I tug at the edges long enough it’ll turn into a damn tuxedo.
But I’m not Inspector Gadget.
My game is underground, like basement level, weeds, dead bodies, Wesley Snipes’ career. But I see you mystery lady, typing and adjusting your headset, and I think, if you listen to Childish Gambino and Chromeo or watch Graceland and old episodes of Man Vs Food, we might be a match. This thang may happen.
But my imagination runs, right into sweet dreams of you grabbing things from cabinets that I can’t reach and me getting pots below the sink that always seem to elude you.
I imagine us frolicking before I offer to climb you like a tree. Before you answer, you actually stand up and move a tree. My heart flutters. And who ever said material things are what make bonds stronger?
Well probably no one, because that’s silly…
But who the hell are you?
When ever you leave your desk and come back, I smell more perfume. I assume you refresh by jumping in flowers. I’m sure when the pool of pedals, drenched in summer wind and baby tears get low, the mice and Godmother from Cinderella just refill it again for you.
I can still smell, on me, the fried chicken my brother cooked the night before, staining my aura with stereotypes and unsavory finger textures.
On my best day, standing at 5 foot 6 inches, I can ball with your 6 feet and rising stature.
I ain’t scurrred.
Today, unfortunately, I will nod and say hello. Another time mystery lady, another time.