bmpawloski
The mound seemed to sit atop the field in a way that made it almost disconnected. From below, adorning his perch behind the dirtied plate, he signaled. The sounds, crickets of humans behind him, complemented the walls of "Firesale Mattresses" and "2 for 1 Steak Night." He was no longer in the big time. His knees creaked as the ball was released, a wince slicing his face before the ball even arrived.
I went to where there was little evidence of anything, and beneath there, beneath...I couldn't say. It was musty, and there were signs that life had left this place behind. Overhead, the noise persisted, and the rain began to come down in torrents, dripping from above at first, and then, finally, trickling into my den, my feet and hands and face awash with water and mud and the leftovers from what God no longer wanted for himself.
When the world looked away, all I saw was him. He was standing before and in the middle and in the height of it all, and he looked angelic, cherubic, and I thought that I was ten again and witnessing something new. A breath came in and fled my mouth, a deep exhalation where everything was expunged and reborn. And then he grabbed me, tugging out of me something that I had forgotten had even chosen to exist.
When he misplaced it, he had figured it lost. He moved on, reluctantly at first, but then as time wore on, he had forgotten even why there was an ounce of sentimentality attached to it. Only when he fished it out of an old box did the feelings begin to rush back to him, obvious as the sun and the accompanying earthly elements, wholly a part of who he was. He was ashamed that he had ever allowed it to leave him.
He took exception when they started to call him "mister." He had never been a mister, and it made him feel separated from them. Even if they didn't mean to offer a division between them, he undoubtedly felt as if "mister" came with clenched teeth and strained soul. He was no longer their colleague, only their boss. Laughter was infrequent in those days.
However he looked at the equation, it always came back "invalid," so when a number finally read "2" he figured he was right. It was right, even if he didn't know what 2 meant. Nothing, as far as he could have read, would have looked more beautiful than that number, however vague the number was at the moment despite the fact that he had known it since he was that exact number in years.
There was no policy that suggested otherwise, so the door was opened, quite easily by the arm, with much more difficulty with the brain and will, and onto the stage he found himself, alone, frigid, beneath the ceiling and amidst an audience of no one. And there he sang for the first time.
Whole. "Whole." Whole. "You want that to be a whole one?" "Yes please." "You're sure." No. "Yes, I'm sure." "You want it sliced any way." No. "No." "I'll slice it in half so you can put it in wax paper for later." "Ok." "Ok, and you'll be staying?" No. "Yes."
He was sure that it was too late for the class, and as he saw the regulars drifting out of the front door, he was convinced. He turned. "Excuse me," she said, as she brushed past. There she was, the gorgeous girl who he came for. This was their gym. Late or not, he followed. Three hours later, they each had their last first date.
Standing stoically became a harder task than they had advertised. First, he was expressive, so as the comments continued to arise in front and behind his naked figure, he immediately captured a comeback. But he couldn't utter it or gesticulate to anyone, anyone, that there was something far superior in thought to their simplistic and caddy attempt at assessing his body and multitude of crevices.
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