brief records
ninth floor. she looks at you concerningly as you tiptoe an espresso mocha to the table. filled to the brim, the foam holds on from pure spite and surface tension. you’re not addicted to caffeine, you swear. she doesn’t look convinced.
hayden. light shimmers sleepily through the windows. she leans her head against yours. brief, but comforting. she researches mcdonalds meat production in china. you take a bite of a banana. mildly bruised. potassium-rich.
concrete walls, scribbled over with chalk. strands all over the desk, from habitually running your fingers through your hair while bashing a probability problem. a faint ping―i heard this and thought of you. you can almost imagine her typing across the field. is this love, you think? maybe. maybe it’s not so bad.