My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie She looked radiant in the streetlight, sucking on a long cigarette, her beautiful knees peeking out from the holes in her jeans. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, carry her off to somewhere dark and warm and dry and kiss her until my lips got chapped. From a distance, however, all I could do was watch. Her name was Astrid Arkin, and she made both men and women swoon. With her hair cropped around her ears and sweeping across her forehead, she looked like someone had painted her during the grunge era of the nineties. She would have fit in playing bass or drums for Nirvana. She wore piercings on her ears and nose and mouth like they were natural skin decorations. Beneath her torn denim vest was a T-shirt emblazoned with a sinister looking guitar, the words screaming, "My Favorite Axe" from her slender chest. Everyone who walked by gawked at her, even the ones holding hands. No one seemed to feel envy about others staring; he or she just enjoyed the v

The first pitch was excellent; it sunk into the catcher's mitt like an old friend, the satisfying thoomping sound exciting the entire crowd. The second pitch was too high, and it narrowly missed the batter's head, and he arched his back in partially sincere, partially exaggerated surprise. The third pitch was low. It was getting hotter and hotter in the ballpark as the first inning began with as much speed as a crawl. I pushed my cool cup of beer against my head and sharply exhaled.