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.
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.