These aren't mine.

It's a late night returning from school, along the concrete pathway edged with grass, I walk to my apartment. A door opens in front of me, like a jack-in-the-box this tall man steps out in front of me. We know each other, loosely but the timing is so fast with both of us walking and him popping out like that-- I can't really remember his name. Apparently neither does he but obligation makes both of us to smile, nod, and for him to confess himself to me.

"Oh. uh. Hello! These, these aren't mine."

He strides away from me and I'm confused, still walking to my apartment in the velvety darkness that holds jack-in-the-box men and social norms I forget.

At the corner where the Circle k and the mexican taco shop and the stoplights are, safe from my supposingly accusing eyes, the glow of his lighter touching the cigarette silhouettes him. He has an aura of smoke shadowing him as he walks away.


The power of the gaze of another human. Especially when we feel there is something to hide. The eyes are the window of the soul, we should protect our souls better. Hide them behind dark glasses and makeup. If I pretend I don't see you, will you pretend too?

Jack-in-the-box man, I wish we would walk along the sidewalk together and your aura of smoke would surround us both. No I don't smoke but I don't mind if you do. I like the way it smells. I'll bring Dove chocolates. I've heard they go togethor well. I'm sorry you thought you had to pretend in front of me. I do that too sometimes.