His Hair

Like pixelated scraps of jazz mags in your headlights.

It's the last few minutes of class. I can't concentrate because Moe is outside the door making faces at me. I roll my eyes at him, feign anger, ignore him but he keeps doing it until I laugh and my teacher looks at me and asks, "What's so funny?" And I say, "Nothing. I mean, what you just said. I mean, isn't it funny how so many people aren't aware of that?" And my golly, what's this, I keep laughing at my moronic answer and can't stop. "I am such a moron!" I think and laugh and laugh. You know when you start crying and just can't stop? That's how the laughter just keeps escaping me. I purse my lips to try to keep my mouth shut, I pinch myself, do my best to collect a somber thought: poverty, heartbreak, death but not a sad thought sinks in and the laughter gurgles up my body like water from underground.

The wall expands, becomes fluid, like an infinite dream.

Outside the room:

Solemn gazes of students deciphering a painting.
A boy in a workshop holding a ruler.
Footsteps in the courtyard resembling a clear pulse.
Music from a boom box. A boy learning to bike.
Sunlight bouncing off fountains. Dogs sniffing the air. A sandbox.
A girl tying her shoelace. Fishballs frying. A kite floating in the sky.
An old man sweeping leaves towards a little fire on the pavement.

I am still laughing. I go to Moe who is waiting outside. I touch his hair.