Um. No. That's not me.
(It's the other Meg, the lame one.)
G.P.S. tells the tale, as a narrative winds up in my mind like
a sling shot while rubber bands tie up my shoulder as a tell-tale sign.
Something's not right here.
Four months later another photographer friend is excited to be
dating. He forwards me the email and the picture, her favorite thing to do
is hang out at the airport.
She likes sushi.
I see how the mix up happened.
Cough.
We would have met if I sold you my fountain pen under different circumstances.
The wrong girl got ice cream that night.
That's for sure.
I hate remembering but it happens anyway.
At least I learned about flux and how to fill the bladder full of ink.
I picture an octopus getting scared under water.
I would rather be a jelly fish.
I'd float above the modem and flirt with the blinking light on the cell phone.
I would get tangled in the lights coming from the machines.
Exit stage as curtain made of tentacles from the men-o-war fall gracefully.
End scene.
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