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 ^{(it's beta!)}

At 8:30 I asked her about her opinion on sex and by 8:32, she had answered in the way I had hoped. “Worth it,” she said, not to my face or even over the phone, but over MSN messenger in simple black Times New Roman.

Later (about 8:38,) she asked me a question over the phone with its own font and colour, almost handwritten and in a rich red; “How about sex, now?”

I couldn’t give her an answer, the writing was too elegant, too out of my league, how could I compare to such an eloquent red? But I had to none the less, imagining her seductive smile and a tongue tossed around tomato lips and how disappointed they would be. Thinking was past and writing was now.

“Y-yes, of course,” Christ, how lame could I get?

“I’ll be up in ten minutes, can you handle that?” Obviously not too lame but she didn’t wait for an answer, the phone clicked and the red handwriting disappeared along with her voice. I looked around the room, lone “i”s, “e”s and a few “l”s were lying there. They had to go before she got here. Lonely letters never look good to a girl who suddenly wants you in her pants.

By now it was 8:40 and the next ten minutes were either going to pass like a poorly written essay or a poet who reads too quickly, neither being particularly desirable. I cleaned the text off the couch nervously, shakily, and maybe a little too quickly, as an “l” hit the normally soft carpet and shattered into each of its individual sounds, scattering them all over the floor.

“Broken one of your artworks?” The handwriting was back, now a seductive scarlet but still of the same hand, now giggling with its simple joke.

“Y-you came, t-that’s’s so—” The elongated lines of her text and coiled around my back and pressed my vocal chords quiet. They curled my top up and I could feel their press against my back, warm and soft, paving down an entire university paper of desires, high school lust.

My words began on their own, also handwritten and mingled with hers, forming a web of jeweled phrases and gilded syntax. Our paragraph tumbled and came upon the floor, twisting itself around us like the flaming paper of a wasted manuscript. This was the one line every poet wants to stumble on; this is the book series every aspiring fictioneer wants to meet in a dark alley.

And I was caught, right in between the subject and the verb, the girl and the carpet.