an accent thick as oil

after i left school today, i stopped by a nearby forest preserve that i have been meaning to explore. it was gorgeous-undoubtedly my new favorite place. the trees were plentiful, and at its center was a huge meadow, completely surrounded in a thick of trees. 

i took my sun magazine and my newly acquired strawberry swisher sweets and sat on a picnic table that overlooked the open grassy space. in the summer of 2005, i smoked flavored cigars constantly. however, after i lit matches from my matchbook, one, two, three, four, five tries until i got it lit, i quickly realized that fruity cigars do not taste nearly as good when you're alone. the summer of cigars was filled with good friends, camp, sweat, tears, and campfires by which we smoked. alone in thatcher woods, it tasted like fire and ridiculousness. 

i wasn't sitting there four minutes until the field was infested with little soccer players who seemed barely old enough to be potty trained. i welcomed the company as i smoked on my stogie with wrinkled face. 

all of a sudden, i heard it: a man's voice with a british accent so thick i was convinced his words spilt to the ground. i looked up to see an amazingly handsome 20-something who was coaching the team nearest me. i tried to avert my eyes and continue to read, but i couldn't even fake indifference towards his presence. i quickly put out the cigar, guessing that it probably didn't look too "lady-like," and i watched as he conducted his little soccer players. i wished i could put every word he said into my pocket to listen to later. "run!" "defend!" "goal!" oh, he was dreamy. 

i entertained ways to get his attention. i was praying for a stray ball to come hit me upside the head, the injury knocking me unconscious and necessitating mouth-to-mouth. but the ball never came.

getting chilled, i eventually left my british beauty and went home. but i have all intentions of attending soccer practice next week, sans the cigar.