bobbing for these apples like cheek bones

between classes i sit in the grass under the warm spring sun and skim a book. it’s playing its trick on me. i’m smiling at coyote. off and on, i write. mostly i just stare at the words on the page. all my thoughts feel smeared. lost in a mediation between awake and dreaming. shook out by his voice.

hey, i’ve read that.
i hold up the book. and stare at the cover. startled at my own lack of speech.
me too. i mumble. squint into the sun—his face.
he sits down facing me without invitation and we have some kind of exchange. of names and reasons we might be sitting in the grass in this particular spot in these moments of our lives. his accent tells me he’s from somewhere else. he tells me to call him ken. but i’m distracted by the extraordinary color of his perfect skin and his messy braided hair. the way he repeats my name after the introductions sounds like setting fire to each one of the letters. draws them up and out into deliberate smoke.
what were you writing there? he motions to the notebook in the grass.
nothing. poetry kind of. mostly nothing. i flip the cover closed.
can i read some? he’s smiling.
no. i say, and i mean it.
we talk about the book.
are you going to be out here for awhile? he’s looking into the sky.
maybe.
i’ll be right back. he leaves his backpack.
i feel strangely incoherent while he’s gone. contemplate leaving. then wait to watch over his left behind items. realize there’s no harm in a situation devoid of intention. and i’ve got none.
he comes back with two black coffees and some scones.
i hope you don’t mind, he says.
all i can think to say is thanks.
are you always this forward? i ask.
he doesn’t answer, but the way he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes says enough. screams slyly: yes. in bold. and italics. we both break into laughter at the absurdity of the moment. of the whole situation.
i like the way you laugh. he says as he drops crumbs into the grass at our feet.
i should go soon. i say to the crumbs.
and we exchange parting words. i don’t refuse his office number when he passes it to me before i go seek refuge inside. but i left it in my desk drawer. likely to be thrown away without regret later on.
we have to get together so you can read me those poems. his voice sing-songs across the courtyard as i start drifting away.
i stop for a second. wave. head for the door of my building. i don’t look back.