There was a sad song playing on the radio and the evening breeze of summer was drifting in through the open window. I was dancing with the mop again. Mrs. Thompson was probably watching me out her bedroom window and shaking her head again. I knew this because it always happened on perfect summer nights when I was dreaming of Mara Love.
She was, without any to even compare to her, the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. She was a yoga teacher. Her thick brown hair was always pulled back in a ponytail. I liked to imagine what it looked like when she let it down, spilling over her shoulders in soft waves, her face softened by candlelight-
But she didn’t even know my name.
Everyday, I ate a sub at Piccolo’s Deli next to the Women’s Workout Center. Everyday I did this because everyday it allowed me to gaze in through the window, just for a moment, to see Miss Love teaching women how to be trees and swans and flowers.
I was far too shy for anything more. And I couldn’t dance very well. Not even with a mop.