Sinister: things without all remedy, best left without regard?

[kmhyde at xxx.edu]

hello sinisteria,


I was sitting around our campus hang-out, the 'Daily Grind' 
(SUCH a witty name!!), when I got restless and wandered 
into the back room to see if anyone was willing to smoke 
with me. I found nothing but a notebook covered with 
stickers. No one was around, so I checked to see to whom it 
belonged, but there wasn't any name. lots of english lit. 
notes, but not much else. then i noticed something written 
on the inside of the front cover. it was interesting. i 
copied it because it was quite good.

this might violate some ethical conceptions, but i don't 
think i'll burn in hell. for that anyway. B&S stuff: the 
copy of IYFS that i donated was playing when i found it...

check it:

In the coffeeshop, it’s hard to separate the voices from 
the tired ‘modern rock’ that repeats ad nauseum. The two in 
the corner are on a date- if staring about numbly and 
awkwardly listing ‘favorites’ can be called a date. His mud 
brown hair is a nice juxtaposition with her white blond 
mop. You can tell it’s a first date- all the telltale signs 
are there: he keeps looking over his shoulder as if 
expecting some accident- a catalyst for more conversation; 
he’s wiggling his foot constantly (there’s enough kinetic 
energy there to power a German chocolate oven); and the 
last sign- the god damn burning bush of a first date- he’s 
not looked her in the eye for more than the time it takes 
to blink.
	 But there’s hope I think. This one might just 
last; I mean it’s no Astrophil and Stella, but possibly 
more of a Burt Reynolds/Loni Anderson coupling. Of course 
the onus of the boy’s fate rests squarely on blondie’s 
chakra point-topped head. And she seems receptive. 
Indulgent even. She’s patiently swirling and cradling her 
coffee in her hands- trying to let him know that quiet 
spots and mumbled phrases are OK- but let’s try to keep it 
together ace. She’s leaning towards him, screaming in her 
body language that she’s very interested. It’s a shame this 
kid needs an interpreter. Smiling and prodding she’s 
blinking like a cat
.or almost. Raising the bottoms to meet 
the top lids. Blondie’s comfortable in herself- I think she 
could easily maintain stately decorum even if this kid 
happened to plop a severed hand on the table. “Voila! un 
main a la carte!”
	No amount of lip biting on his part could fret her- 
at least this time. Maybe in the weeks ahead the shy and 
coy song and dance will grow old and will seem less like an 
act and more like the real thing. When the awkward pauses 
become painful and ineluctable- deserts of silence to 
traverse without any Bedouin training- or in his case, 
without any previous experience. 
	There’s a girl near the window and she’s reading 
carefully- ostensibly so as not to shatter the images of 
life she wished she could live. It’s an Amy Bloom novel-
 “Even a Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You”. I know 
because I stole a look at it on my way to the bathroom. 
Short chestnut hair posed on top of tiny eyes and nerd-
thick glasses. She turns the pages and sighs- expressing 
through exhalation her blocked wishes for the pages to turn 
themselves, or at the very least be continuous. That’s not 
too much to ask, is it? Chestnut twirls her hair (just like 
I do, between the thumb and middle finger, like a pinch of 
snuff) to release the stress. Except I only do it in 
private, I’m a closet hair twirler. You can relate, I’m 
sure. 
	The couple just left, and I’m surprised at how much 
I miss them already. The loss of their white noise 
conversation lessens the general din, and now this place 
has the atmosphere of a linen closet. He (mud brown hair) 
walked out before her- loving every second of her presence, 
but paradoxically anticipating the end eagerly. He held the 
door for her too (they’re both hip- Cosmo compatible), but 
would he do that for the overweight girl behind the 
counter? In my experience at least, chivalry is shown  
selectively, just like your best Jerry Lewis impression. 
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