You, the Toasted Coconut donut that was sitting on the windowsill of Dough in Bed Stuy. Me, the silly, naive girl walking out of the shop with only a coffee in hand because I swore that today was “diet day.” I couldn’t help but look back at you, my emotions all glazed and confused, but even though I wanted you, I had to keep my word. The cashier made it worse. “They’re all new,” she sang. “Made just this morning.”
Of course I was tempted, but I’m leaving it up to fate: if you’re still in that windowsill tomorrow morning, I’ll take a chance and break my promise.
L Train. Manhattan bound. I was sitting next to a couple who was arguing about whether or not they should have bought that “stupid chair that looks like a robot” from IKEA.
At this exact moment I had the greatest idea ever dreamed up in the history of a brain, perfect for the short story that I had to submit for my creative writing class in exactly two hours. My unreliable iPhone battery bailed on me so I couldn’t write the stroke of brilliance down. As Murphy’s old school Law would have it, my pen was out of ink. As soon as I got out of the L to transfer to the R, I got distracted by a band playing on the subway platform and just as quickly as it had appeared, the idea was gone. Poof.
Where are you? Will we meet again? Please come back.
You were the boy in Paris that all my friends from home said I was bound to meet abroad. I was lost, and as if on cue in some indie rom com, you appeared — tripping clumsily — right in front of me. We laughed, then talked, then walked. You walked me for thirty minutes to the restaurant where I would meet my friends. I asked if you wanted to join us, but as soon as you saw them drinking and laughing and carrying on, you wavered.
“Um, I don’t think so,” you said. “They look a bit…untamed.”
If I ever get to see you again, I would address your pungent body odor and call you a dick.
Written by Jessica Jacolbe
Image of Marilyn Monroe shot by Michael Ochs in New York, 1955