Weatherman’s a Liar

It was eighty degrees today. And the other day, three years before. Though commonly, I’ve been reminded that I don’t have the best of memories. While I’m likely wrong about the state of your thermometer, a handful of people can attest to the faded flash of red.

“You’re gonna pull a Marilyn. Stop, stop, shit.” Another purposeless air vent.

Here, we have no subways. Buses are mostly late. I’ll usually pick a seat that allows me to glance over everyone’s head, guessing what the guy with the large black thermos could be mouthing as a girl my age sobs amidst static space. I did some research for the first time in months, to find that my pills had been bottled in doses for restless children. This could explain a lot, but of course, I love caffeine. So I walked ahead for my milk and tea, in front of a car that continued to hum. No one was startled, and the driver just smiled. I tugged at my dress, murmuring that two months ago, it was five inches longer.

My chest ached again as I looked down, pulling a bra strap onto my shoulder. I counted the pigeons I knew so well. Four must have wandered elsewhere, as two cardboard memoirs sat torn beneath the nearest stoplight. I stilled myself in the parking lot. Toes aching and sweater sleeves wet. Out of the house for about five minutes, and I was sweating in runaway clothes, in want of excuses for scarves.


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