craig/marco - this one makes the least sense of all

This Boy by these things

There's this guy in my English class. He sort of clutters my natural flow of thought.

We're doing "The Merchant of Venice". I play Salanio and say "Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well. We leave you now with better company." He is Antonio, secretly lusting over Bassanio, and stealing the show.

It's fitting (him going after Dylan and me being the supportive friend. When all else fails, yeah, kiss Craig. Craig won't kiss back until you honestly care).

I can't keep my hands off of him. All the time, touching, poking, tickling. He looks at me funny. I need to set up boundries, fast. I get a new camera. The photographer can't be in the picture at the same time as the subject.

Thought I'd test it out. I take a few quick shots of him on stage. If anyone asks, I'll say it's for the newspaper.

Snap click. Snap click.

We don't have a newspaper.

Snap click. Snap click. Snap click. Snap click. Snap click. Snap click.

In my darkroom I'm brave and I sing real loud and fast and breathy. I've got a girlfriend, and I've never actually been inclined to boys, sure. But it's hard to ignore those shoulders and the most perfect lips and the deepest, nicest brown eyes I've ever seen.

Colors immerge and shapes are defined from the fuzziness. I tell him I like him. I always have, since that first day. I've probably inhaled more sepia toner than it's safe to. It's worse than mustard gas.

He doesn't answer back. He's only a picture.

He's only twenty-nine photographs hanging out to dry in my darkroom.