My Cardboard Balcony

Rainbow Sweater by Belinda Roddie You first wore it because your grandma asked you to, and then it became your visual anthem of personality as you strutted to the local café where the owner knew your name and kissed you three times on the cheek. You weren't gay, but you were fabulous, and that sweater said so, right after the calf-hugging shooting star socks, knee-length breeches, and suit jacket with the unicorn patch sewed on. A Christmas gift crystallized into a wool prism on your chest, and not even coffee stains and drops of mustard from your ham sandwich could change your glow.

He flicked a piece of ash from his cigarette and watched the object of his affection dwindle, dwindle, dwindle into nothingness, as the fog enveloped her bare legs and swallowed her whole, leaving nothing but the glitter of the golden spire. No, no. The golden spire, protruding from the lip of the government building, where steam billowed from its carved orifices. Standing up, he withdrew another cigarette and lit his sleeve on fire.