They stood at the corner of South Main. Whiskey-thin, sandals flapping hard
against their heels, their cut-off jeans slid to crescent moons of pale flesh. One
girl had a tattoo, a sunflower that nudged denim strings to the side, a thin stem
that slid down her left thigh. I was ten. I wanted their bare shoulders, tanned and
freckled from the sun, their fingers peeling beer labels from bottles, twirling
plastic straws and cigarettes. No one knew that I practiced. How I squeezed into
their bodies. Pranced in front of my sister’s full length mirror, pushed the strap of
my terry cloth halter off my shoulder, smiled seductively through a dimpled face
and a missing front tooth. Once, I dug through the garbage cans in town,
snatched every straw that I saw, plucked blotted tissues snagged in the stop
signs, in the No Loitering signs. At home, I stared at the pieces, wondered about
the ways I could wear the red stains.