My Cardboard Balcony

The Girl In A Suit by Belinda Roddie The girl in a suit and a salmon pink shirt told me, "I'll kiss you for a quarter, twice for another. Fire your stupid shrink and ride with me to Havana's border on a boat, with a cocktail in your fist. We'll hide out in a broken down café and never tell anyone that we kissed, and lovely ladies will serve us lattes laced with a minty liquor that's so sweet, you think it's from a distant memory, and you'll feel lighter with each new heartbeat as I take you to bed at half past three. We'll go where the gods always gladly went, and all I need for that is fifty cents."

Beneath the willow tree outside my bedroom window, there was a girl who slept against its withered trunk for at least an hour every day. This was normally around the time I finished school, when I walked home with my backpack slung over one shoulder, one of my ears occupied by the stinging musical sensations of Russian Circles' Station album. I didn't know her name; she wasn't a student I knew, and I wasn't even aware of how old she was. Old enough. She slept soundly, peacefully. Nothing disturbed her, and by the time I went upstairs, finished my math homework, and looked outside, she was gone before the sun even had a chance to set.