Seventeen
minutes
ago,
I
was
in
love
with
the
cashier
and
a
cinnamon
pull-apart,
seven
minutes
before
that,
it
was
a
gray-
haired
man
in
argyle
socks,
a
woman
dancing
outside
the
bakery
holding
a
cigarette
and
broken
umbrella.
The
rain,
I've
fallen
in
love
with
it
many
times,
the
fog,
the
frost—
how
it
covers
the
clovers
—and
by
clovers
I
mean
lovers.
And
now
I'm
thinking
how
much
I
want
to
rush
up
to
the
stranger
in
the
plaid
wool
hat
and
tell
him
how
much
I
love
his
eyes,
all
those
fireworks,
every
seventeen
minutes,
exploding
in
my
head—
you
the
baker,
you
the
novelist,
you
the
reader,
you
the
homeless
man
on
the
corner
with
the
strong
hands—
I've
thought
about
you.
But
in
this
world
we've
been
taught
to
keep
our
emotions
tight,
a
rubberband
ball
we
worry
if
one
band
loosens,
the
others
will
begin
shooting
off
in
so
many
directions.
So
we
quiet.
I
quiet.
I
eat
my
cinnamon
bread
in
the
bakery
watching
the
old
man
still
sitting
at
his
table,
moving
his
napkin
as
he
drinks
his
small
cup
of
coffee,
and
I
never
say,
I
think
you're
beautiful,
except
in
my
head,
except
I
decide
I
can't
live
this
way,
and
walk
over
to
him
and
place
my
hand
on
his
shoulder,
lean
in
close
and
whisper,
I
love
your
argyle
socks,
and
he
grabs
my
hand,
the
way
a
memory
holds
tight
in
the
smallest
corner.
He
smiles
and
says,
I
always
hope
someone
will
notice.
— Kelli Russell Agodon, “Love Waltz with Fireworks”