tomatoes on the windowsill

When my dad asks me if I want to order pizza, I know there's more to it than just the literal meaning. He's not just asking, 'do want pizza?' he's really saying, 'I'm addicted to greasy, unhealthy foods, I'm overweight and it's a problem. However, I want pizza and I'd feel better if you had some too, because then I could pretend that I'm doing this for you instead of for me.' I never have the heart to say no.

OK--tell me if this is normal. My dad has never done anything to me. He's never touched me except to squeeze my shoulder or kiss my forehead. And yet, when I lie in bed at night, I listen to him watching t.v, and I hear him get up and pass my bedroom and go to the bathroom...and I get this irrational fear. It's silly, right? I mean, he's never touched me.

Well, be that as it may, it's not much of a worry anymore, as I don't live at home. I live across town from my parents and go to college. I have a roomate and a cat. I stay up late every night reading books and eating nutella with a spoon. I put my homework off until the last minute.

When people ask me what sort of things I like to do, and nod and look understanding when I say 'read,' I wonder if they understand fully what I am saying. I mean, I doubt they realize that I can't go to sleep each night unless I've read first. The preferred method of sleeping , actually, is to fall alseep while reading. Then I wake up at 3 in the morning, the light still on, a book held loosly in my hands, and make-up smudged under my eyes. My breath is thick and moist, from not brushing. There is a slightly rotten taste in the back of my mouth. But do I get up? Do I wash my make-up off, brush my teeth, change into my pyjamas and turn the light off? No--I pick up my book and keep reading. You see, I prefer books to real life. I think many of you will agree, that any escape from reality is addictive. Well, books are my escape from reality. Just like coke or heroin or alcohol for some people. Except books make you smarter, whereas that other stuff is actually detrimental to both brain and body if taken in large doses.

Alright, so is there a point to this story? Yes, as a matter of fact. Just be patient. The point of this story is love. See, now I have your attention, don't I? Well keep reading. This is a good love story.

So I met this guy. Well, to be exact, I already knew him, vaguely. He was my sister's ex-boyfriend's friend. Lionel. We had met once or twice, and shared the pain of Lisa's complete and utter disregard for public comfort when it came to displays of affection. We would sit on opposite ends of the couch, Lisa and Grant between us, and exchange grimaces over their slowly pulsing bodies. Lionel would turn up the volume of the movie, and we'd giggle. Once he got me through an entire of level of supermarioworld. We made it to donut plains, or something like that. I always liked Lionel a lot. But he had a girlfriend, so liking him...THAT way was out of the question. But I did note, with certain satisfaction, that his girlfriend was pear-shaped.

Anyways, that had all been years ago. And then suddenly, while I was walking down campus after my linguistics class, Lionel popped out of nowhere and began walking by my side.
"You should come hang out in the cafeteria," he invited. "We're the loudest table. I have tons of friends."
"Well, I just might," I answered. He looked good. Tall.