Monday, June 10, 2013

Peggy

Seen waiting for the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:30 a.m.

Peggy dreams of a child’s life—scraped-up knees, hide and seek, popsicles, sidewalk chalk, earthworms on blacktop after the rain. This dream keeps her chest flat and her hair cropped short. No razor has touched her long, deer-like legs.

In the summer her longing becomes louder, like there’s a toddler living in her lungs, crashing the lids of pots and pans together. She’d give anything to trade her desk for a swing-set, her job for sleepaway camp. She’d rather spend her Friday nights catching fireflies than at happy hour.

Sometimes men present themselves to her, attracted by her toothy smile and the freckles that spill over her nose and onto her cheeks. “You seem so free,” they say. Their cologne disgusts her. She swats them away like mosquitos. Her mother always told her not to talk to strangers.

Oh my I had a busy weekend. Tonight I have to run to the suburbs since relatives are in town. Then it's back to the city tomorrow night. Summer is always so crazy.

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