I’m looking for someone. Not someone to grow old with, someone to rock with till the lullabies go flat. Not someone to hold my hand at graduation, because I am uncertain I will remain among my colleges by then, these pupils I’ve seen grow old. Old with snap chat stories writing their futures, old with excuses, concussions of guilt that get every football jock out of their math test.
I’m looking for a young person, one who I can stand to be taller than, have a few freckles on their cheek. I can stand some makeup in the most unnoticeable places. I can stand a smile. Not an optimistic one. No. A somewhat hopeful pout, or a twinkle in the corner of their eye. Anything that proves they don’t wish to contradict me, to slur every one of my phrases when it is most raw. I don’t want someone like that.
They don’t even have to be a high schooler. They could come with a barcode, categorized under the young adult section in the library. A little gloomy, like all the books there want to be, a little moody. I’m looking for someone, not a back-talker, a frantic typer, a socialite, none of those things. I look around, searching with one strap on a shoulder, more than waiting or longing. It’s more than standing outside of doorsteps in the rain. It’s more than sitting at an airport with a label-maker. I’m actually looking.
I’m not saying the fellows I have are unsuitable. They are genuine, they are homey, they are “nice”. I’ve found, however, they are nothing but that. Nothing but a high-five, an un-hungry applause at each one of my attempts—attempts to find puns in the scarcity of textbooks, attempts to be a good listener, and pretend to give a crap about their run-the-mill antics. My fellows: their words of wisdom do not belong in the chinks of English quote books (I cannot be their companion anymore). I cannot stand the buzz of inadequate whining; undesirable voices that gather the worst words out of our dictionaries. I like them, I do, but I’ve outgrown them. I haven’t grown old, but I’ve outgrown them.
This position is quite uncomfortable; this situation could never be a couch cushion or a restaurant dinner booth. No. I only sit in such places when I am alone, when I am still combing through the cracks of the TV remote, or underneath the lamination of the specials menu. A time and place: a perfect moment for time and place. A cozy seat warmer, a hot water bottle, a leopard print blanket. Only in warmth can time and place find whatever it was they were looking for. Yet I am still looking for them. The conventional stretch of that minute hand will someday lead me to that someone.
They don’t have to be like me, they don’t even have to like me. They could be plain and simple if they wanted to. Straightforward, not afraid of criticisms for the love of every mistake I have ever made. Maybe they could get their point across, unlike me, and my day-to-day unnecessary sentences. Maybe they could tell me when enough is enough, and I don’t fit into my anecdotes like puzzle pieces do. Maybe they could hold my hand in the metaphysical dankness of a thought tunnel, but in truth, not really hold my hand. Maybe when I don’t want to go to my graduation, that someone will say it’s okay.
That I will say it’s okay. And I’ll stop looking.
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