V.21 No.41 | 10/11/2012
By Margaret Wright [ Tue Oct 9 2012 7:26 PM ]
You will not remember: The girl I’d someday marry had just said yes to my stammered invitation, and my palms were slippery. She smiled, bent to wipe the moisture on the hem of her dress, which at that moment caught on the tip of your cardboard scepter. I could smell the gold spray paint. The queen crowned to your king laughed. She was always cruel to freshmen. Your white teeth also like a cut of painted cardboard, a bright band of victory. My eyes downcast, trying not to crush my girl’s shoes, and when I finally got the nerve to tilt toward her face, she was looking at you. But you might remember: The time you stopped to shake my hand in the grocery store. My palms still sweaty. I started to ask you about the plant closing down and realized it was the same as high school, females fluttering nearby, whispering about your blue-green eyes. I squeezed your cool fingers and took a long look. They look gray to me, and clear and flat as the road out of town.
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