This morning I walked past a beautiful couple at 7AM and they both were so happy and holding hands and so clean and I wanted to know how they did that and how they woke up so early, so happy, so wanting to touch someone else.
I watched them walk toward me as an angry abueltia walked in front of them, so angry and so mad and so normal for the morning. She was carrying two bags, waddling left, right, left, right, left like her mother had bundled up too much. The couple floated behind her, these bobbing smiles on either shoulder of the abuelita.
The woman was pretty. She was very pale and wearing all black. She had a coffee which, again, was an expression of extra effort so early in the morning because she got that coffee before 7AM because it was barely 7AM when I saw her. She had her hand around it like it was a toy, this squish-squish thing to play with when you need something to do with your hands. She kept looking over and smiling at her boyfriend or whoever this guy she’s holding hands with is. She even gesticulated with the cup, rubbing his upper arm as they walked.
He smiled. He had a perfect square face and a bright square smile and square sunglasses on because he wasn’t square: he’s a morning dude who hangs out with his morning girlfriend doing their morning things. He did this thing where he lead with his chin, his square chin, pointing out everything as he talked since his hands were occupied touching her. They laughed. They were sunbeams from the sun rising behind them and I had to put my sunglasses on because it was becoming obvious that I was squinting at them, confused.
I just stared and I wanted to know what their lives are, how they live, how they are so fucking beautiful and perfect this early in the morning. How are they so happy? How are they touching each other early? My sense of touch is only myself, for warmth, my hands in my short, rubbing pockets, rubbing leg meat for small heat. I don’t smile but I stare and I look at them and I think about them and I question how they are them and me and the abuelita glower as they glow.
They go past and they go away and I go to work and I think about them and I think about how they can be so happy and so beautiful and so early. All I am is angry, every morning. How do they do it? Were they walking down Santa Monica Blvd to some courthouse to get married? Was this the first day of a vacation? Had they just inherited a sum of money? Were they walking to go kiss near a car before they leave each other? Were they on their way to bed after a long night of not sleeping, their happiness being their proximity to sleep?
They walk behind me their way and I walk my way, uncomfortable, thinking about Thursday evening on a Thursday morning, thinking about the impossibility of the morning couple, thinking about the morning couple and what they think about.