When all the city lights blind your eyes tonight
I was rushed out of the "burning" building by men with axes, I had my own priorities. I asked her earlier, the cute girl with that terrible apron, I closed the book I was reading like I was hanging up a phone and thought, "well" and I truly wondered what Roald Dahl was about to say. But that's okay he had nothing to do with those bangs she blew with corner cheek breaths and such soft cheeks air brushed unconscious and cautiously every twenty to forty seconds. Barista's are terrible distractions in San Francisco. I was trying to read! I dropped my book like giving up anthems, I, am, succumb. I was thinking as I glanced, of all those days at work I hated and how we kill time by smiling, fake yet with such indefinite weak hopeful happiness. She poured of it, she cut cards with her tongue. I put down my book, I left the spine cracked. I was huge when I approached her (as most faux writers are). With my shoulders and my dimples, my strengths and my weakness.
"What time are you getting off?"
"uhh," Brief smiles are our favorite exaggerations.
"I just need to know when to make the reservations, the restaurant across the street? The crab meat and legs don't fight like they should, some say it makes the rich weak but we can lie, right?"
"ha" (light and weak) "e-eight"
"They're booked at eight"
The fake phone call wedged between my ear and shoulder, the fake angry hostess with fake angry fingers and the worst clicking fingernail rhythm you will hear on rich wood at front desks.
"Did you have clothes, they're saying it may rain"
"yeah, in my locker, are you sure? It's real sunny, they never let me leave this terrible espresso machine but it was sunny outside."
"excuse me"
When I returned she was just laughing, I had no idea those fire sprinklers would have that effect on her it's a little romantic and a little illegal.
I was rushed out of the "burning" building by men with axes, I had my own priorities. I asked her earlier, the cute girl with that terrible apron, I closed the book I was reading like I was hanging up a phone and thought, "well" and I truly wondered what Roald Dahl was about to say. But that's okay he had nothing to do with those bangs she blew with corner cheek breaths and such soft cheeks air brushed unconscious and cautiously every twenty to forty seconds. Barista's are terrible distractions in San Francisco. I was trying to read! I dropped my book like giving up anthems, I, am, succumb. I was thinking as I glanced, of all those days at work I hated and how we kill time by smiling, fake yet with such indefinite weak hopeful happiness. She poured of it, she cut cards with her tongue. I put down my book, I left the spine cracked. I was huge when I approached her (as most faux writers are). With my shoulders and my dimples, my strengths and my weakness.
"What time are you getting off?"
"uhh," Brief smiles are our favorite exaggerations.
"I just need to know when to make the reservations, the restaurant across the street? The crab meat and legs don't fight like they should, some say it makes the rich weak but we can lie, right?"
"ha" (light and weak) "e-eight"
"They're booked at eight"
The fake phone call wedged between my ear and shoulder, the fake angry hostess with fake angry fingers and the worst clicking fingernail rhythm you will hear on rich wood at front desks.
"Did you have clothes, they're saying it may rain"
"yeah, in my locker, are you sure? It's real sunny, they never let me leave this terrible espresso machine but it was sunny outside."
"excuse me"
When I returned she was just laughing, I had no idea those fire sprinklers would have that effect on her it's a little romantic and a little illegal.