Pink Shirts
That smell: chlorine.
This light: unnatural.
"Let's go, let's go, let's go!" he yells, clapping.
"Oh God, not today," I think.
This place: rainy.
This tour: not for me.
"…For students already accepted..." she says, eyebrows raised.
"I'll prescribe something for you, my dear," I think.
These people: friends?
Their whispers: harmless?
"Do you have to look everything up?" she sighs, eyes rolling.
"Do you still need a ride today?" I think.
This phone: not ringing.
This silence: wanted anyway.
"Seven o' clock," she promises, so sure.
"Whose clock?" I think.
These celebrants: family.
This gathering place: home.
"The guys are going out for pizza," she reassures.
"But I want the door prize," I think.
This woman: "authority."
This process: "official."
"If you look in any book, the table of contents lists the page numbers," she spits, condescending.
"Lay off the coffee and wipe the lipstick off your teeth," I think.
This room: mine.
These clothes: boys'.
"You're wearing a pink shirt?" he asks in disbelief.
"And some glitter to match," I think.
by Peter Cain