I tried to explain what Mezzanine meant but was thwarted because we weren’t on one. We were on a poetically renamed second floor. It’s hard to explain what Mezzanine means when architects lie.
Mezzanine: Writing postcards has helped me commit to saying goodbye, briefly. They were beginning to sprawl into double spaced “regards” ladders, separated by commas.
Alone the first two seem crass and the third, trite. I suppose the best I can hope for is a poignant triumvirate. But they look more like prompts for short answers, little texts boxes built to enclose handwritten signatures. I am sorry they cannot be.
Cannot be: A gaggle of tanned, blond, high school students passes me on the UT quad. They are in orientation for their summer college prep program. They are, “totally overwhelmed by all the people they don’t know.” I overhear tidbits between 17 year olds who only met last night. Their hobbies are swimming and also, sometimes, reading books. Presumably they are walking together instead of alone because they happened to meet last night.
Reorientation: I met Jeff on the second day of summer school. We went for a walk where he tried and failed to right a fallen newspaper dispenser somewhere along the Charles River. We met through the people we had met on the first night. Our hobbies were running and gymnastics and reading books. Sometimes.