FRANKENSTEIN

She walked to the meet up point—the corner of this and that street.

He was waiting, beat her too it. It was flattering.

He was reading.

She sat across from him.

He noticed.

She asked, “What class is that for?”

He answered, “English.” They were on a first date—heading to dinner.  But an Indian Man sitting next to them turned and asked, “Excuse me. What’s Frankenstein?” A pause.

He answered, “A scientist.” He continued to answer.

She chimed, “They made it into a movie. You can get it at the library.”

She began walking.

But he and she laughed about the Indian Man.

They knew what the other was thinking.

It was interesting to think that not only was the Indian Man eavesdropping on their conversation, but that the Indian Man had the itch to ask the two what a or who ‘Frankenstein’ was. But she just shook her head and remembered before then, before she sat down, before he opened his book, before this night, before they were asked about Frankenstein— when material didn’t fall so easily into a poets lap.

They would laugh about it for the first and last time, all the way to the Indian restaurant down the road.

-sonja lynn mata