One day.

I will be famous. And what will make me famous is the gyration of my hips, the liquid flow of my arms, and my "floating ass" if you will.


One day.

I will see Shelby walking down the street, pass him by in the supermarket, or even have him wait on me in my favorite locally owned restaurant. I'll want to fight back tears, I'll want to scream, I'll want to laugh hysterically in his face. And then, maybe, I'll want to make love to him right there on the table. The way I never got to. We won't be crammed in the back seat of a rental car, or have to worry about being quiet. It will be passionate, bittersweet. We'll be locked in an embrace of "I don't want this to end. I'll never let you go again. I missed you so much." But then it will be all over and we will let go. I'll pay my tab, tip him well. Very well. Possibly exchange numbers and leave wondering the same two questions I've been wondering all those years, "Will he call? Will I see him again?"


And one day I won't be afraid.

Afraid of my curves. Afraid of my personality, of being outspoken and a bitch. I'll keep saying what's on my mind and be proud in doing so.

One day.

Un jour.

Un dia.

Language doesn't change the fact that these days might not come. And I can't sit around hoping or waiting that they do.


Because after all,


Life
Won't
Wait.