This guy walks toward me. He steps over the tenting of the sidewalk, over mountains and plains with radial faults, formed by the clashing of concrete plates and uplifted by tree roots. He scuffs over mini Sierra Nevadas, and crushes leaves building up like sediment in valley floors. He kicks a couple of ant-made cinder cones erupting from the boundary of sidewalk and lawn, spraying the sand onto the grass like pyroclastic material covering a forest.

The guy’s shirt is open. Not completely open, the bottom button is closed. I see a long triangle of flesh framed by the blue of his shirt. He steps down a steep cliff in the sidewalk. It looks like a thrust fault. I’ll have to be careful when I come to that part of the sidewalk. I might trip and stumble and fall on my face like I did before and people looking out of their windows will see. The cracks looked like crevasses when my face was pressed against the concrete. Or maybe they won’t even notice. Maybe I will trip and fall into one of the cracks. Slip away out of sight, out of the world; see only a small white line of sunlight above me. Feel so small. Will anyone wonder about me?

Geology lecture. I saw him there. I remember. His shoes were on the back of the seat in front of him, his elbow was resting on his knee, his hand by his crotch. I watched his fingers move. I saw his eyes. He looked at the cell phone in his lap while he typed a message. I can’t remember what the lecture was about. Volcanoes maybe.

He is walking straight at me, still a little way down the sidewalk, but I move over to the right anyway. I feel a tug as my shorts catch on freshly watered rosebush thorns. The water that jumps from a leaf tickles my knee-hair.

What will I do when I have to pass this man? Should I talk to him? What should I say: Hello? Hi? How you doing? Wuzzup? Why the fuck are you wearing your shirt like that? Seriously, what kind of bimbos does he expect to pick up with that style?

Maybe I should try unbuttoning my shirt? But could I really pull it off?

I could just ignore him. Act too cool to even acknowledge that he exists. But I would really like to talk to someone. Even just a “hi” would help me deal with all this shit. I see so many jerks talking on cell phones, texting, bumping into me in the halls outside of the classroom. I take my cell phone out of my pocket.

“5:37 p.m.” it tells me.

It’s so hard to decide. It’s hard to even keep my eyes open. I can’t think with all this information stuffed inside my brain like waste in a backed-up colon. My brain makes grumbling noises. I feel its contents being squeezed, distended, shifted, sending out vibrations.

The guy is closer, passing under the island shadow of a tree. I straighten my back, pull my shoulders away from my ears, suck in my stomach, bring my chin in close to my chest, hold my head straight, try to stretch an extra quarter of an inch taller, and square my shoulders. Cars are squeezed against the curb along the whole length of the street. I glance at the reflective surface of a rear window. My hand spasms. It wants to run itself through my hair but the guy is too close. He’ll see me.

I can hear his shoes scuffle along the sidewalk, hear him exhale. See the v of soap-soft hair exposed on his chest, his collarbones that raise his skin, his neck, his chin, his mouth. Smell the sharp smell of sand from the anthills he kicked. Taste the plastic taste of his hair-gel. I try to make eye contact.

“Hi,” I say.

He smiles. “Hey, what’s happening dawg. Good to see you.”

“Uh, not much.”

But he walks right past me. Looks at a guy who has just emerged from a beat up red car. He reaches out to embrace his friend. I leave them both behind, feet moving fast, shoulders slumped, head down, eyes on the cracks in the sidewalk.