by Scott Garson
A student of mine wrote a story about being in love. Nothing happened. I wanted to speak with you, say something. What? The shade had been drawn but not all the way. You paused in leaning sunlight. In the story the boy was employed at a café, as a barista. Nothing happened. Then later, nothing happened again. You asked if I’d spoken. I hadn’t but wished that I had. I wanted a scene that could burn in my hand. I wanted some gibbering prophecy here—a thing that could jingle the base of your cup in the ring of its glazed white saucer.
Scott Garson is the author of American Gymnopédies. He edits Wigleaf.