She is early, standing outside,
rotating a pen between the fingers
on her right hand, and an older
couple, both holding cans of
beer, passes her on the sidewalk
nodding politely.
There is enough cash in her pockets
to pay a third of her rent, but instead of
using it wisely she took a long walk
to the side of town with the church
that has all those statues with sad eyes.
It was a walk she was familiar with
and took most weeks when she was
still in high school, and stressed out
about the layouts of her slide show
presentations. There was a telephone
pole that looked like someone had thrown
an entire can of white paint onto it.
It wasn’t painted neatly but looked more
like a splatter resembling the vague shape
of an ear. None of her old friends knew she
was back in town. The first person to find out
was him when she texted him about picking
up some weed, and she could just barely see
him now coming over the hill up the street
from her.
They talked a little while they smoked in an
empty lot a few blocks away. Nobody noticed
or bothered them. He asked her what made her
decide to come back and she couldn’t think of
an answer. The wind made her long hair cover
her face, and she was worried she would still
smell like smoke when she got home.
Teleporting Typewriter 