When I was a pre-teen my cousin would ask, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Hot wet tears run down my cheeks and under my collar.
On Wednesday, I watched her steal a daylily from my garden.
Dante likes to tell stories.
I waited in line at the grocery store and stared at the tabloid magazines.
By the time Mariel arrives at the water’s edge, the sun’s hanging low.
On the cusp of teenagehood, I was increasingly preoccupied with a search for the elusive Cool, and suspected that this exciting, slightly nauseating sensation in the pit of my stomach was it.