he knows my name

i sit in my spot on the far away chair - at the end table by the window - feeling divorced from the others. i suspect we all feel that way - except perhaps that confidant, curly haired girl who talks loudly and ignores my annoyed telepathic attempts to shut her up. i am ready to do all that is asked of me. i am eager. i am primed. i am self-conscious - it has been so long for me.

he stands up and closes his eyes;  i watch him shed his big weight and all the stories connected to it - he shrugs it off, along with his reticence and his introversion and his silence. this is the moment i wait for. every time he does it, i breathe faster, like i know it's significant. i might need it one day.

he stands, still big but also beautiful and knowledgeable and accomplished. i don't want to miss his words and i seethe when the curly haired girl asks her neighbour if conner called her and if she's going. i turn to her as if i might be disturbed by her rudeness but she is oblivious. her lack of awareness will make her a crappy writer - that helps me.

then he speaks - my cheeks fizz and my ears strain and i am under his spell. he moves me. i worship his memory and his experiences, his ease and talent. he throws away a picasso story - i pick it up for my reference. he shows us mechanics and lubrication and he pulls examples from thin air - i suck them in.

now to me. i follow his directions. i pour my guts onto the sunny page and sort through them with the pretty floral pen my girl gave me for my birthday, last year, when i had swine flu. it hurts and i am breathing raggedly. then it's all over and he wants someone to be brave. i want to be brave for him. i go red in anticipation of my nerves and my dry mouth and my shaky voice and then, i raise my hand.

when i am finished, he looks at me for a bit longer than a beat and he asks me to go again. i go again. oh glory. he tells me about my green apple with dents and bruises and my one green converse hi-top with the scribbles, he holds me up and tells them to look at me. he asks my name again. sorry, what's your name again?   he looks at me differently now and i must have him always look at me just like that.

it's done and he sits down, his bulk heavier now, his grey ponytail a little less silver. he's almost gone. i squeeze past the chairs in my row, feeling raw and tired. when i reach the bottleneck at the door, i turn slightly at the sound of my name. he looks up at me over the rim of glasses that i've just noticed he wears. excellent - he says.

he knows my name.