Crystal Clear, Razor Sharp

Polly in his pocket

Who the hell names their kid Polly? What does a name like Polly imply? “Hi, I’m Polly. I’m cute and loveable and my curls are never out of place. I’m simpering sweet to everyone I meet and my eyes sparkle when I laugh. Hee hee hee.”

I met a Polly today. It wasn’t pleasant.

I went to Service Club tonight, perhaps against my better judgment. I didn’t want to see Matt, I wanted to give him the “time” that he needed. At the last minute though, I changed my mind. Tonight we were supposed to assemble hygiene kits to send to Darfur, and for that the club needed all the hands it could get on its assembly line of love.

I brought my generosity and goodwill to try and help starving children in Sudan, and Matt brought Polly. Some blonde freshman with hair grown long and straight down her back.

I watched them talk and laugh, all the while wringing the cloths I was to be putting in the hygiene kits with all my might and imagining they were Polly’s blonde locks. She has the annoying habit of crinkling her button nose in the most endearing way when she giggles. I could practically smell the pheromones.

This was a calculated message, I’m sure. He doesn’t want time, he doesn’t want me and he certainly doesn’t want to talk tomorrow. He’s a lover, not a relationshipper. I opened my mouth because I wanted to put him in the “defined by attention from a male” piece of my puzzle. And he ran like he had stolen something (probably the wiser choice on his part).

Well, he did steal something. I won’t say my heart - I care too much about myself to say something as petty and cliché as that.