Always Awkward

I used to wait for you in a sketchy laundromat.
Before I lost my faith.
I never went anywhere. I never made new acquaintances that lasted more than a brief moment.
But I thought if I waited long enough, you would come.
I would sit Indian style in the laundromat with The Perks of Being a Wallflower and a box of cinnamon Teddy Grahams. I had my iPod on Sigur Ros, the book open in my lap, but I stared off into space dreaming of the moment when you would walk through the door carrying a basket of wrinkled t-shirts.
Had you ever actually walked in, I can tell you exactly what would have happened.
One look would have ended any hope I ever entertained of being calm and collected.
Mind blank, heart palpitating, I would have felt the book slipping from my lap.
Fumbling to catch it, my wobbly, awkward movements would have knocked over the box of Teddy Grahams. None would spill, but the box would make an awful clatter which I would only imagine all the more awful without the headphones. I would blush terribly and look down, fumbling with my belongings.
The buzzer on my dryer would give me an escape. I would stuff my clothes in the basket without folding them, and, head down, escape into the cool night air.