Note:A tenth grade English essay. The time was spent listening to Distengration (the cure) and being mopey in the dark of my room. The product.


Do you remember the first time I said ‘I love you?’ I remember that day, the day the wind was howling down Magazine St. with such malice, that all the people stood in the doorways of their shops, watching as it pushed and pulled plastic bags around the street and sidewalk; they watched as it unearthed the dust from the graveyards and tossed it about until they were forced to seek shelter. It was whistling through the old houses in the Garden District, dancing through their old boards and antique stained glass windows. It rode with me on the Trolley cars, it rode with me into the French Quarter, it rode on my shoulder down Bourbon street and across to St. Charles where I first laid my baby blue eyes on your soft blonde hair. I wandered down toward Café du Monde, a tourist of perhaps 42, 45, my features hidden by the red, red lipstick I was wearing and the white, white makeup I had delicately masked my wrinkles with. And I saw you there, sitting in the corner eating pastries, pushing up your thin-framed glasses, flipping idly through a book, marking passages with a highlighter. You licked your lips, missing the white sugar that has built up around your mouth, flipping through your book, marking passages with a highlighter.

I wanted to talk to you, I wanted to speak, but I could only stare at you from across the street. I could only stare as you sat in the corner eating pastries, pushing up your thin-framed glasses, flipping idly through your book, marking passages with a highlighter. I could only watch as you took another bite out of your deserts, the sugars falling through the air down, down, down onto your black jeans. I could only watch you, and wait. And the wind, that had waited so patiently on my shoulder minutes before took flight into the air; took flight into the air and violently swept across the street. It blew into the Café, causing the women to shriek and holler in sudden fright as they clutched there great big hats with one hand and covered their drinks with the other. It caused the men to grunt impatiently and stare off into the distant, just stare off down the street at the cars and the passing women.

The wind blew towards your golden blonde hair and your dark gray eyes, it blew towards you as you sat in the corner eating pastries, pushing up your thin-framed glasses, flipping idly through your book, marking passages with a highlighter. And as it swirled around you it caught from your plate the pastry sugars, and animated their flaky bodies, causing them to dancing around your body, sticking gently to your black pants and your white shirt. And the leaves joined in this dance of the exanimate, the leaves danced around your body, sticking gently to your black pants and your white shirt.

And I stood across the street as you shaded your eyes with one hand, clutching book to chest with the other. You turned your body from the swirling pandemonium and stared across the street, you stared towards and past me as if seeing in the distance the vision of God himself. In such awe were you that you stood, and dropping the book to the ground, you clutched your chest. And I clutched my own, a reflection of your own self image.

And I shook my blonde hair loose from my face and stared into my own baby blue eyes. I crossed the street and entered the Café. I came towards you, and you smiled and said to me in my own golden voice, “I can see again.” And I took your face in my own and washed away the sugars from your face with my own spit. And from that two perfect opals dropped from your chin onto the tablecloth the color of flesh. And then, and there I said into your heart, “I love you.”

But you never heard me, for the wind carried my voice back down St. Charles ave., down into the Garden District. It still whistles through the old houses, creaking the old boards and stain glassed windows.