My Cardboard Balcony

An Ode to Suburbia by Belinda Roddie At the bus stop across from the coffee shop and the McDonald's, I wait for the 101, and I count how many times I can see my breath when I exhale. Large, gray plumes trying to fly without a body. It's below fifty in March, and I'm not used to taking the bus these days. My fingers twitch at my sides, like they've been caught in an electrical current, zipping like a cable car. Destination: No man's land. How long has it been since I've seen a familiar face emerge from those blue and red patterned seats? For a city that seems so cozy with its formation, with its population, with its shtick of, "Hey, I remember you from high school - let's flood our senses with IPA and soggy fries and shoot the shit while bitching about Stephanie from Spanish class." But I don't see anyone from high school, or from any of my schools, for that matter. My hometown has a way of inviting ghosts to its reunions

It was high time for a kiss and a crime on a starry, starry night. I was waiting with the guns and goods at the corner of Ninth and Hyde. She came running over with her hat tipped over, the brim covering her eyes. And we broke out of rank and into the bank and cast our luck like dice.