taylor-of-the-phunk

At the southwest corner of a suburban housing development, a small untamed wood thrives, not trimmed and planned and manicured like everything around it.  But it seems to hunch slightly, as if it knows its wildness is a facade, only reluctantly allowed out of some sentimental impulse, and at any second it might be chainsawed into proper order at the whim of the association. Still, if you walked all the way to the center, where a small stream flowed in the gentle shade, you could imagine yourself miles away from civilization.  That was part of the reason June came here.  She was sitting cross-legged at the base of an oak, furiously sketching

1. It hurts. Goddamn, it hurts like hell. It hurts like a dull, constant ache you can’t shake. It hurts when he’s sitting next to her and listening to what she has to say or tying her shoes or playing with her binder because you know that’ll never be you. It hurts when he’s sitting next to you and smiling and listening to what you say because you know it’ll never be more than that. It hurts when he’s sitting across the room with his friends and he’s laughing because look how smoothly his life flows without you in it. 2. If you’re in a room with fifty other people who are talking to each other,