You Read About Local Politics and Hate the Sox
I’ve been taking pictures of all the places I used to see you before we met. I am reconstructing our narrative. It starts with us in a Starbucks. I saw you frowning over the news while I waited for my drink. You tossed the paper on the table, shook your head and left, popping the collar of your jacket to fight the wind. I read that article. I created you from its contents.
Later, I saw you at an apartment. You were talking to the doorman, big smile, while you waited for the elevator. After you went up, I asked him what you were discussing. He told me that the Sox game earlier was a shutout. Baltimore won. I looked at the display above the metal doors and saw it stop at floor twelve.
I take pictures in Boston Common, on the Red Line, the Green Line, never the Orange or Blue lines, and at the Hong Kong in Harvard Square. I had on a black sweater, was picking up an order of scallion pancakes right before you. I finally said hello, learned your name was Brian. It was nice meeting you, Brian.
I am not a forward person, but I am leaving this here on Craigslist. The odds against you reading this are probably astronomical, but Brian, I haven’t seen you around recently. I go to the same Starbucks every day, wondering how we’ll end.
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You ordered Beef and Broccoli. You said I looked familiar. What’s my name?