Under Pressure

A sharply tattooed jacket: taking as a cacaphony of letters smacked on papyrus.

He saw this and saw her and worried about eye contact. Surely they would talk like in those old days. Old: a week ago. But unresponded messages widened the chasm significantly.

Look, look places so you aren't staring too direct. No no, too close: up, up, yes, that's better, don't rest till you're skyward.

Are we about to do this? Walk past each other without a flash of recognition?

I'm surely not going to be the one to stop it I never was never shall be awkwardness without end is what I'm afraid of.

We were close. Closer, closer, almost there, to where a week ago we stood shoulder to shoulder.

And then in an instant she passes and I can't look back, because I'm scared she won't.