Luck (What it Comes Down To)

The traffic roars past me as I walk home; music pounds in my ear. You walk ahead, a book clutched in each arm that dangles by your side. I ignore the music and study you from behind.

You're tall. You're thin. You move with a lanky grace that I love to admire (from a distance, of course). I'm lucky, I tell myself, if you even know my name.

Luck isn't a common occurrence for me. Luck with guys, luck with games, luck with opportunities. Hell, luck with the weather. So I reason that with that kind of luck, the chances of you knowing my name are very, very low.

But that's maybe not entirely true. Maybe you do know my name. But. But. I'm lucky--it all comes down to my (crappy) luck in the end--if you think about me as much as I think about you. Or think about me at all.

Do you?

I'm standing, waiting to cross the street. You're somewhere behind me. I know you cross the street at a different place than me, so after I'm on the other side I look back. It takes me a while to pick you out among the crowd of people, but when I do--

You're already looking at me.

Just my imagination, I tell myself, turning away. Just my imagination, he's just looking in your direction, and I curse myself for being so girly. The lights flash green. The traffic roars past me as I wait; music pounds in my ear.

When I turn to catch a last glimpse of you you're walking away, back turned, tall, thin, and with a lanky grace.