Her
There I was, echoing footsteps from two months back over the same dusty pavement, eyes wandering across the gas station McDonald’s. The sky was musky, a warm wind blew over the sand on the sidewalks and swirled around the few Toyota’s waiting to be loaded up with petrol just as their owners were loading up their bellies with greasy fries.
It was a Tuesday and I had nothing better to do than to look pretty and wait. I did it as a habit, really. It started out with a nostalgic happiness that would dawn on me every time I looked into the McDonald’s window and remember the breakfast we had had after a terrific, sleepless night. I would recollect her face, her skin, all glowing in the morning like mine never could. But I never felt jealousy, like I did with the other girls. I just felt a small ache just below my breasts, a steadfast thud of knowing we could never happen. Who were we, anyway?
