"i wonder if mrs. onomatopoeia knows that her shirt's inside out," you whispered to me in another riveting day in middle eastern history class. her name wasn't actually mrs. onomatopoeia, but rather mrs. pfft. seriously... mrs. pfft. it was the sound you made when you're mad at me or someone or the world. it was the sound you made when you didn't get your way. it was the sound you made when you didn't believe me when i told you you looked beautiful.
i glanced at our teacher to see that, in fact, her shirt was inside out. i laughed and the teacher saw me and you giggled behind you jacket sleeve and mrs. pfft called me in front of the class and she then asked me, in a very high-pitched voice, to "detail the precise reason that i had laughed in the middle of her obviously non-funny lecture about isreal."
only when i saw how much amusement i was bringing you did i tell her why i had interupted her class.
YOU ARE READING
float
Random[finished] thoughts are whispers floating in the wind, capturing every part of our being in the way only we know [lowercase intended]
