I walked alone today, in my royal blue flats and a borrowed brown jacket. Stepping on wet leaves, I headed home down W. 2nd S.—with my eyes closed, and my face and my neck turned up to the grey sky. Carla Bruni sang Quelqu-un m’a dit one time after the other to me, through the earphones I bought last summer. She understands this beauty I feel. I passed the football field and ran my fingers along the chain-link fence, watching them vibrate.
The French song plays in 500 Days of Summer when Zooey is in the passenger seat, wearing a light blue shirt. Her bangs are dark and in her face. She laughs, but the music plays over it. I will go see that movie tonight.
I pushed the little white button on the crosswalk, saw my breath in the air, and waited for the lights to change. I remembered a dream I had the night before. I wore the spandex pants and grey school sweatshirt I often sleep in. I’m not sure exactly where I was, but someone I once loved was there, talking to me. He was tall, and I strained my neck to look at him. He told me he loved me for all the right reasons. He told me he always meant it. I looked at him confused, but said nothing. The light changed, and as I crossed the street, I watched a man with a beanie riding his bike in the park.
This morning when I woke up and walked alone to class in my royal blue flats and a borrowed brown jacket, I saw the tall person from my dream, the one I once loved. I’m sure he saw me, but crossed the street plugged into his iPod, and never looked. It hurts, and you’d like to feel miserable about this, but you can still make your day a good one.
On W. 2nd S., I stopped to take a picture of the yellow tree I love with dark brown branches that sits across the street. I took a cold breath, pulled my earphones from my ears, and walked up the driveway of the light-blue house on the corner.