I don’t know why it’s so irrelevant

I’d just left that sunny little studio on Main, yoga mat slung over my shoulder and show tunes skipping through my head, when I saw him skulking his way down the sidewalk. A pathetic lonely little fuck who lugs around a book all the time feeling sorry for himself and hoping that someone will notice him. He wears his tragedy like a Les Misérables billboard, telltale earphones isolating him from the world that he drifts through with an insecure shuffle. Somehow navigating through the dark hair that covers his eyes, he finds his way to a bench and slumps into it.

There, he brushes back his blinders and begins to evaluate the people in sight. His speculative eyes sweep over each one, and he hunches over as though still stuck at that school-desk as he writes up character analyses and hands them in to be graded. “Thin. She walks down the street so lazily. Her clothes are simple… faded. Her hair is long, looks hastily combed, looks thirty seconds shy of shambles. Not low enough.” Yet with every dismissal, he swallows hard and chokes down his longing.

He doesn’t bother with smiles when eye contact chances to occur between any of them, averting his gaze instead and pretending to be absorbed in his reading or writing. It’s always a treat to encounter a fellow practitioner of the unapproachable art, no matter how amateur or plagued with self-inflicted loneliness. I decide that I care to take his dare, and head in his direction as I ponder which manner of exchange he’d be willing to entertain.

Mentally deranged? I don my best Cheshire Cat smile. Sickly scented? The spunk from my PiYo class should take care of that. Brash idiocy? I have in my possession a “Trump for President” pin that ought to do nicely. Feeling equipped, I slide in next to him, shrugging off my gym bag and mat.

As his muscles tense, I must resist the urge to pounce. The antelope’s ears stand alert as he drinks from the pool. His eyes remain locked on those pages. My fingernails dig into the wood of the bench, penetrating the softness of its fibers, sinking ardently into the pulp. Adrenaline is raging through me, racing along those bloody byways and running countless vessels off the road. Fresh perspiration beads on my back as I wait for the rush to subside.

Fields flourish, wither, and fall to dust as we spin in a silent tornado of misplaced time. Loose strands of our hair whip about as the surrounding cyclone sends past us a slideshow of soaring cows, fences, and old ladies knitting in rocking chairs.

With an exhale I free my nails from the wood, bringing the flurry to a skidding halt. My hand reaches up and tugs at the wire dangling from his ear. He turns to me, and I find myself staring at a Picasso portrait come to life. I’m at once repulsed and magnetized by its jumbled amalgamation of pain, conceit, and self-loathing. I lean in with bared teeth.

“What’re you listening to?”

and i'd trade it all for you to come home... some days i get crazed, i don't know why, it's so irrelevant