girls
we were always at Olio waiting for the next two people to fill the seats at our four top. every night we wore black with glitter smudged across our eyes and between our fingers—we were too old to feel invincible but it was something close to it. there was the time we met the retired attorney turned Michael Jackson impersonator who told us to never see his Broadway show. or the time we ate our olives slowly so the politicians could watch. at the last bite, we saluted their portraits on the walls above. we’d take our time in the bathrooms anywhere, studying our teeth in the blurry mirrors, ignoring the line pressing up against the door as we searched for our initials in the graffiti. any night can sparkle like a disco ball if you just look up. on this one in particular, as a grey-tinted hand chokes the cold city and it’s hard to really tell what time it is, i can see an old black blouse hanging in my closet, a speck of glitter catching the shine from the bedside lamp. it’s been awhile, but not so long that you’d forget.
