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Cutting Lunch

She’s the kind of girl who likes cutting lunch. She’ll head into the library, thinking of formulas and schedules. She’ll tip up her black-rimmed glasses before opening the door, making sure they won’t fall as the wind blows past. She’ll act nonchalant toward her surroundings: There are priorities in this world, after all.

She’s the kind of girl I fall in love with, the ones who don’t think twice about their surroundings. There’s an attractive force in that ignorance, a force that justifies all the greetings not taken notice of, a force that justifies all the initiated eye contacts not reciprocated.

She’s the kind of girl who I want sit with at 2am on the corner of Waverly and Sixth, drinking coffee and talking about how her eyes are sparkling and how my lips need hers. The moment I have the chance to take her hand in mine, I will: And all else from then on will be history.

She’s the kind of girl I’ll never find, and if I do, I’ll get down and promise to her that I’ll never let her go. And if she tries to run away, I won’t hold her down: A girl needs her independence. And hopeless romantics need their dreams.