by grizzly

Every day near noon, a piece of the universe embedded into a single host of bones and veins and flesh

    struts 

through the space in which a handful of hosts inhabit. It’s as if the rest of the universe and its

    fundamental 

purposes are blurred—I’ve become nearsighted! Yet this piece, this beautiful woman, is as clear as a

    lamination 

sheet. I have yet to present myself, but this cubicle confines me. I’m just a cell in this colossal architectural structure of an atom made of stones and steel. Yet she sits freely outside, consuming nutritious

    substances. 

These constraints have bruised my wrists and ankles for too long now. It’s all you’ll ever have. No. It’s all I’ve ever had. I scattered my desk and untied my tie. I grabbed my coat and yelled, “This is not how I’ll die!” I made my way out and stumbled with shy, weak knees. “May I say you are just beautiful?”

    She 

paused for a moment. It was the longest pause I’ve ever endured with such suspenseful agony. “I’m

    married,” 

she said. “But you have no ring!” I exclaimed. She pulled a napkin and wiped the grease off her fingertips then reached for her pocket. “I didn’t want to get it dirty,” she said as she walked away. And that’s

    all 

I’ll ever get.