Monday, October 5, 1987

Cappy Hap

a short story written during my junior year in college

She sat on the brick steps of the cathedral-style building. Brick and tile and pillars. I strolled by on the sidewalk. Cracks and weeds and concrete. I wore an old fashioned pilot’s cap. She wore a lonely face. I looked stupid. She looked normal. But I was happy.

“Hey,” I shouted as I arrived at the mail box, “would you like to borrow my cap?”

She peered up, startled. “What?” she spat out. She looked close to tears.

I hopped up the first set of steps to where she was sitting. I pulled off my cap and handed it to her. She pushed it back toward me, shaking her head. “I really think you should try it on,” I insisted, but she still waved me away. I crammed the hat down on her head anyway. She stood up, prepared to pull off the hat and throw it at me and then a strange thing happened. Her arm halted halfway toward her head, fell back down to her side, and a smile came to her face.

“You’re weird,” she said.

“Thank you,” I responded.

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