tennis lesson

There was a a steep hill with a long street. It was Olney Ave. in Philly, the street I walked down to get to school, but it wasn't. I had to return a comforter from a professor who had left a comment on my blog. The drop off place was on this Olney Ave., somewhere in the middle. I was being very productive and busy. I was at a writing class that Ms. Wolf was teaching. The class was filled with all these super queer people. They were acting ridiculous--hooting and hollering, being loud and outrageous, as well as overly sexual about everything. One guy unbuckled his pants and danced around giggling and rubbing his bare ass on some guy in the corner who was laughing hysterically at the whole thing (like Jules would laugh--a full open mouth joyful laugh that came from... who knows where). He thought no one saw him, but I did. It felt just like the good old times at Hayden Hall. I was having such a time that I missed my tennis lesson.

I don't play tennis. Ms. Wolf was my art teacher.