Andrew J. Lederer

and spilled that green sauce you get with indian food all over my computer bag, i wouldn't have expected the smith street fair had anything more to offer me. but then i ran into shannon, who'd been a waitress at brooklyn's no-longer-extant blah blah lounge, where a guy once came up to me to tell me he'd also seen me at the frog and bucket in manchester.

at first she didn't recognize me but then a smile came over her face and she said, "look at you -- all scruffy and -- " (i wasn't anything besides scruffy, so it stopped there.)

she introduced me to her boyfriend who owns a neighborhood restaurant and hugged me tightly and warmly.

genuine affection.

i felt good until i realized i might have been holding myself in a way that made me look like i had man-tits. depending on the pressure of the chest against the shirt, i either look like i have muscles or mammalia.

"muscles or mammalia" is the "she loves me, she loves me not" of my torso, my chest-on-shirt pressure variations taking the place of the sequentially plucked daisy petals.

i know she loved me but i fear my chest said, "love me not."