be the one to tell it

October 6, 2011 § 1 Comment

The girl waited outside and it was raining lightly. But it was very cold. Her hands stayed in her pockets. The rain wasn’t heavy so it made her hair look dirty. Heavy, not wet. With her ponytail tucked into her hat, she looked like a boy but if you were at all interested, you would have noticed her female. Clearly, she had an ass, the kind that folds just above the back of the thigh. It’s a good one, men often asserted, as though she didn’t know any better what she carried around with her. They always let her know.

“You look like a man.” She shut the car door behind her. Her mother was driving and speaking simultaneously, the wipers were blinking fast. The glass squealed. It was distracting enough that she didn’t hear her the first time. “You look like a man. So manly.”

“Why did you have to repeat that?” The girl scoffs but subconsciously begins to remove her hair from underneath her hat. It falls clumsy around her shoulders. She also unzips her jacket down to her collarbone.

“You just dress like a man. What happened to you?”

“I’m tired. It’s raining. And I’m cold. Why does it matter?” Her legs cross.

“You’re just careless now, like a man. You’re starting to look just like your father.”  The rain would not get any louder. She prays on noise. And her mother, well, her mother prays on beauty. Her ass just needs a little recognition.


§ One Response to be the one to tell it

  • Chris Araman says:

    I moved from the midwest to Seattle eleven years ago. My “pen” is now distinguishable from my “pin”. I now drink “soda”. I eat and drink things with foreign sounding names. My mother doesn’t recognize me anymore.

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