Mistaken

I grabbed my bag
and guitar and slung
them over my shoulders.
In my hand I took hold
of my sticker-covered water bottle;
a declaration of so
much of me.
These things weigh me
down the stairs with
dropped eyes, watching my
steps so I don't fall.
I see a couple coming up
the stairs and hear the
girl worry about her
boyfriend being caught in her
dorm. He looks up to see
me and says to her,
"Don't worry, see?
There's another boy."
A small smile creases my
lips as I continue downstairs,
my little secret safe from them.

Later, sitting under this tree,
I see the couple walking idly
by on the sidewalk.
She rushes over to apologize.
"I'm sorry we thought you were
a boy earlier.
My boyfriend, he just
blurted it out before I could
stop him."
I tell her it's fine,
that I don't mind being
mistaken so much.
"Don't worry about it"
issues from my mouth,
although she continues to feel
sorry, I'm sure.

I don't blame her.
Usually these sorts of things,
mishaps, require an apology.
Most girls don't enjoy being
mistaken for a boy.

Most girls, however,
are not me.