I always stumble on the second to last step on the stairs that lead to organic chemistry. Gets me every time; that bruise on my shin turning more purple or green, depending upon how I fall. It’s routine now, like drinking Brazilian coffee, losing my keys, and thinking about you. The way you chew the end of your pen, teeth boring marks into soft plastic, as you puzzle over the daily crossword. Meanwhile I’m frantically trying to get the notes down - taking down equations in neat, girly handwriting, making it legible, in case you ever ask to borrow my notes. You never do.

I wonder if you ever worry about the pen exploding in your mouth - shooting viscous blue ink all over your face, dribbling down your chin and onto the jeans you purchased at American Eagle when I was working the cash register and you didn’t recognize my face. You still might be beautiful even then - a study in body art, “boy in Klein blue.”

Your body is more sensitive to time than any clock - exactly at five till, you get restless. Slouch down, sit up. Reach over and casually unzip the bookbag, stick the newspaper in. Long fingers idly trace the words etched in the desktop: “2pac lives” and “FUCK YOU NANCY.” When the whistle blows, you pick up your bag and rush out the door, gracefully, while I’m scrambling with my books. I follow you through the same door, stumbling on my way out.