My Cardboard Balcony

The Girl With The Green Hat by Belinda Roddie I found you at the food court when I wanted someone to talk to, and you were wearing a bowler as green as spring with a silver-topped cane at your hip. You offered to share your kung pao chicken because I didn't have the money for my own meager sampling. I declined, but then you bought me a pizza pretzel, and that was awfully nice. There was something about the way you made jokes about the mannequins, mocked the window displays, and found glamor in the cheapest and wackiest of the clothes on the clearance rack. You made the hand-me-down jeans and jacket I was wearing seem like something out of a fashion show, and you never stopped smiling beneath the brim of your hat.

NO SMOKING, the sign said, until I tore it down and lit my pipe aggressively, the smoke thrashing like an angry third arm across my shoulders. When a waiter stormed over to demand I put the thing out, I threw my bad beer in his face, jostled on my coat, and sauntered outside, pipe still puffing like a chimney. The tobacco was sweet, and the smell clung to my curls and made them feel sticky against my jawline. I felt like myself again.