Unrequited

I am once again flipping through the tall man's script, searching fruitlessly for the character that will be me just as soon as he takes off the hat and glasses.  I am the priest, driving frantically to return my secret love to her wedding, for I am also the high school sweetheart who's mom thinks he's gay but in all actuality just can't get past the flashing yellow sign pointing out the detour that I have no interest in taking because I know the way.  Things are different under an African sun, iluminating the keyboard and the paper in bright shades of white that fade away after dusk, and it is here that I see more clearly the glimmer of goldfish darting in the transparent waters of the pond, easily identifiable but somehow not marked in my guidebook.