On an Edge of Glass

to do with a boy?”
                  I grab Mark’s hand and tug.  He lurches forward, nearly spilling his cappuccino down his shirt. 
    “Okay, first of all, don’t call me Elizabeth.  Second, I am not forlorn .  Forlorn is a term reserved for losers and literary characters from the 19 th century.  I am neither.”  I wipe my hair from my forehead before continuing.  “And third, there is a boy involved in this story.  But it’s really a commentary on missed opportunity rather than a retelling of some flimsy moment of infatuation.”
                  While we walk down the tree-lined sidewalk that edges the north side of campus and leads to my house, I tell Mark what happened at the coffee shop on Monday. 
                  “So that’s it?”  Mark sounds disappointed.
    A biker in an electric blue helmet speeds by and I let my eyes follow him until he disappears around a corner. 
    “Yeah, I guess so.”  I think about what I want to say.  It’s hard for me to describe the feeling properly.  “It’s not so much that I missed out on meeting that particular guy.  It’s more that I’m upset with myself, because now I’m always going to wonder about him.  I should have at least tried, you know?”
    We stop at the mailbox where the brick of my house’s front walkway kisses the grass. 
    Mark shrugs.  “I think you’re upset about the guy too.”
    I laugh as I take out the mail and begin to shuffle through the envelopes.  “You’re probably right.” 
    “I just don’t understand why you did nothing about it.  You’re not particularly shy with guys.”
    This is true.  But maybe that’s because I’ve never really been interested in someone enough to get shy.  I’m not accustomed to the butterflies-in-my-stomach sensation.  It completely threw me. 
    “It doesn’t matter.  I don’t have to time to date someone right now anyway.”
    Mark rolls his eyes upward.  “That’s a load of crap, Ellie-bear.”
    “Next year…”  I start.
    “Screw next year.  Why didn’t you say something to me when I showed up?  You know that I’m an excellent wing man,” he chides as he twists the end of his checked scarf around his neck.  A cool autumn wind picks up, blowing the smells of buttered toast and nutmeg and red currants over to us.  The trees sketched out against the bright blue sky are tipped in flames.  A few dried leaves—brown as packaging paper—scatter to the ground around our feet.
                  I shake my head and keep my eyes down as if I’m incredibly focused on sifting through the collection of letters in my hand.  “Because he’d already disappeared, and like I said before—the entire thing was really a non-event.  Honestly, I don’t know why I’m bringing it up.  I talked to him for about thirty seconds.  It was a handful of heartbeats.  Hardly anything to get myself worked up over.”
                  Mark’s right hand goes to his hip and he kicks out his foot.  “Yet here you stand, worked up and blushing like a schoolgirl.”
                  I stick my tongue out at him.  “Have I told you before that you’re obnoxious?”
                  “At least a thousand times.”  Mark slips my hand over his arm and pulls me up the walk, rocking his body so that his hip bumps into mine.  “Now tell me all the good parts.”
                  “Umm… I thought that’s what I just did.”
                  He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.  “I mean... the good stuff.  Height?  Build?  Eye color?  Lefty or righty?”
                  “God Mark!  Get your mind out of the gutter!”  I laugh and duck my head sheepishly.
                  Mark adjusts his grip on my arm.  “Look, if your exceptionally handsome super BFF isn’t going to ask you these questions, who will?”
                  I open the front door, my thoughts running through the memory of the guy.  “Tall… v ery tall and lanky, but not awkward looking,” I say decidedly.  “He had long dark brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that were just a few shades lighter than his hair.”
    I think about his mouth.  It was curved and sensual, but I can’t say that out loud.   Mark would never let me live it down.  I sigh.  “He was sort of edgy—like maybe an artist, or a writer, or something like that.”
    “The kind