Waiting In The Driveway
Don't look, ma. I'm not done. "Hurry up and change, girl."
The irritation of a mother is endearing outside the cubicle.
I don't know if I should pick the red or the green. Oh the green feels so new, so comfortable. I'm so used to it. But the red—the red is beautiful. Ma, always said I looked good in love.
The boy called once and asked twice where I was and I looked away. Do I need to answer? I'm not with you, I said. He asked again, and I repeated it: I'm not with you. I'm not with you. Ma rapped her knuckles on the door, "Hurry up and change, girl. He won't wait for long." And I looked away. I'm not with him.
He drove by, for a while. To see how it went, to test the road. He went slow, and it stuck. He stuck. So I went for the white.
Nice, neutral white.
For nice girls.
I'm not with you, I said, and he said that's why he called.
My attentions were too far to notice.