True Story
Oshawa, 1996
I sat once in a coffee shop and wrote inside my poem book. I noticed a girl who was cute etc. She came in and ordered a coffee.
She sat beside her friend (across from the table I was at) and she spoke about her life. She looked at me briefly, though she looked at me a lot.
She spoke of her great sadness - of her life with some guy who treated her poorly - some guy whom she said she still loved dearly, despite how much he shat on her. I didn't want to listen, but I was only a table away.
As the ladies’ conversation dwindled, the once-faceless villain appeared. He said that he wanted to surprise the girl. He told her she should go out with him that night. The girl protested, and although her friend told her to go, she still said no.
It was then that the guy told her she was stupid (actually, he said she was fucking stupid). According to him, she didn't realize how good he was to her. He told her that she probably liked other people because she was a slut. I just kept writing in my book.
I felt her eyes turn to me. I felt his eyes turn too. He said that she was a bitch. Then he laughed and said that I must think I'm Shakespeare or somethin’. He asked if she wanted to be fucking Shakespeare instead of fucking him.
There was a long pause . . .
The girl then giggled and told him to be quiet. She told him he was being silly. He told her that she’d shut up if she knew what was good for her. He told her to go to his car and told her to wait with his friends. She obeyed. I guess she thought she loved him . . .
Once the girl had left, the asshole sat down with the friend. He mentioned that he could kick Shakespeare's ass. The friend laughed and said yah, and then asked him to give her a ride home. He said anything for someone as pretty as you. Then they left.
I’ve played this scene over and over again with a different ending each time. I’ve pictured the girl standing up for herself. I’ve pictured her leaving with me. I’ve even pictured myself calling the guy on the fact that he was complimenting me with the label of ‘Shakespeare’. Most times however I’ve pictured his expression as I smash my coffee mug across his ignorant face. It doesn’t matter though. In the end I just kept writing . . .
I sat once in a coffee shop and wrote inside my poem book. I noticed a girl who was cute etc. She came in and ordered a coffee.
She sat beside her friend (across from the table I was at) and she spoke about her life. She looked at me briefly, though she looked at me a lot.
She spoke of her great sadness - of her life with some guy who treated her poorly - some guy whom she said she still loved dearly, despite how much he shat on her. I didn't want to listen, but I was only a table away.
As the ladies’ conversation dwindled, the once-faceless villain appeared. He said that he wanted to surprise the girl. He told her she should go out with him that night. The girl protested, and although her friend told her to go, she still said no.
It was then that the guy told her she was stupid (actually, he said she was fucking stupid). According to him, she didn't realize how good he was to her. He told her that she probably liked other people because she was a slut. I just kept writing in my book.
I felt her eyes turn to me. I felt his eyes turn too. He said that she was a bitch. Then he laughed and said that I must think I'm Shakespeare or somethin’. He asked if she wanted to be fucking Shakespeare instead of fucking him.
There was a long pause . . .
The girl then giggled and told him to be quiet. She told him he was being silly. He told her that she’d shut up if she knew what was good for her. He told her to go to his car and told her to wait with his friends. She obeyed. I guess she thought she loved him . . .
Once the girl had left, the asshole sat down with the friend. He mentioned that he could kick Shakespeare's ass. The friend laughed and said yah, and then asked him to give her a ride home. He said anything for someone as pretty as you. Then they left.
I’ve played this scene over and over again with a different ending each time. I’ve pictured the girl standing up for herself. I’ve pictured her leaving with me. I’ve even pictured myself calling the guy on the fact that he was complimenting me with the label of ‘Shakespeare’. Most times however I’ve pictured his expression as I smash my coffee mug across his ignorant face. It doesn’t matter though. In the end I just kept writing . . .
Labels: MY WRITING
posted by M'Adair at 3:43 a.m.
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