I wish it was February 1985 instead of February 2021, because then we'd all be looking at MTV and Space Shuttle launches and returns, and wondering "Where's the beef?" instead of preening and pissing on the internet constantly. Which is what I am doing right now, but that's not important right now.
I'm sure I'd feel much lighter and connected--to physical things, like papers, pens, desks carved by dozens of bored teenage hands, mildewy girls' restroom corners, cig smoke undulating out of the Faculty Lounge (and sometimes the girls' restroom corners), mimeographed exams, formaldehyde in the bio classroom, Giorgio Beverly Hills and Drakkar Noir drifting down the halls. Or like cold, glassy tv screens, permanently leaden November-March Kentucky skies, the pops of color in everyone's clothes, pops of their collars, the nubby acrylic of my sweaters from McAlpins or Jean Nicole or Deb (did I shop there?), a needle on a record, pencil lead dust on the edge of a ruler after making one third of an isosceles triangle. Baked potatoes and Pop Tarts. The wondrous web of hair spray in another girl's curls.
My heart lurching under my Oxford-cloth button down and sweater when I saw him down the hall.
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