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Snapshot
[an:ebc0a04ca7]This is a semi-autobiographical work. While reading it, keep in mind that it is meant, as the title suggests, simply as a snapshot of a character, no significant plot development.[/an:ebc0a04ca7]
She took a deep drag of the cigarrette, her cranberry lips puckered in a picture-perfect "o". She threw it down, stomped on it. It just didn't suit her.
But what did suit her? Fifteen years old and going on twenty-one, she sat in the diner sipping tepid coffee she didn't even like. He was obviouly not coming back. Jackass. He was cute and funny, smart in that liberal Harvard undergrad way. He had thought she was nineteen. She hadn't denied it. There had been so many but nothing ever happened. Not a single one had kissed her. No boy, ever. It was okay because she was not a hormonal teenager but rather a young woman powered by a carnal lust for knowledge and experience. Or so she liked to tell herself.
Her mom was at home, brooding over her work, maybe tonight she'd remember about dinner. Dad would be coming home soon to no hot food. It wouldn't be pretty. Maybe she should start heading back.
The list of drinks perched on her table began to blur. Damn, she was tired. And hungry. But why should anyone know that? With a few shakes of her head, the list of lagers and merlots were clear thought still un-orderable. She sighed, got up. No sign of Carl, didn't even have the decency to pay the bill. Bastard. She pulled a fiver out of her dark-rinsed Levis, slapped it down, grabbed her styrafoam latte container, and sauntered out. There was no other way to describe it.
She made for an intriguing photo, sitting in the deserted bus. Her head was tipped forward, her sloping back and neck swaying to the wheels' constant movement. The neck of her tightish black shirt v-ed low, exposing new-found cleavage. Her dark hair waved and curled to the middle of her spine, where her delicate and nimble findgers gently stroked the spirals. She clutched her novel tight against her ribs, too visible from one too many "skipped meals". Her eyes were hard yet afraid of scorn, darting to the window every now and then.
The bus was taking her home, but where was she going? No one could say but herself.
__________________
i stick loneliness
your lips
and the two coins of your eyes
into my pocket
well the train skates
into port henry
late sunday
sometimes when i'm riding high
feeling fine
you know there's something
troubling my mind
so i reach into my pocket for some small change.
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