Tuesday 200 — #84

Sometimes she writes letters to clear her mind. Not “Dear Grandma, How is the weather in Poughkeepsie?” letters, but letters of the alphabet. A string of consonants or vowels, but only one of them, whichever of the twenty-six pops into her head. She’ll write it big and small, slanted and straight up and down, in cursive or in block printing. Over and over until it’s just a glyph, a symbol that doesn’t mean anything. Certainly not the initial of the boy who kissed her in the hot sun last Saturday afternoon, hiding behind the tree where their parents couldn’t see them.

He promised to call. Or at least send a text.

Let it go. Mustn’t start thinking about that again. If he calls or texts the phone will buzz. Grasping it in her hand and wishing won’t make it happen. Grasping it in her hand … she flushes at the memory.

They couldn’t see us, could they?

A watched pot never boils, a watched phone only roils.

She hides her mobile under her pillow and reaches for a different crayon. A brownish red one. The color of spleen.

g G G

Gee, she hates him. Gee, she loves him. G.

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