The weed high parches my mouth, means I see you in parts: freckled cheekbones, the curve of bicep at the sleeve of your indie rock band tee. Feels like the only difference between today and the afternoon you blew me off before junior prom is I’m bleach blonde now. My attempt at suave: “I’ve always thought you were cute, so if you want to hook up or anything . . . .” I flap my hand. “Not right now,” you say, but I’m an anxious talker. “I’m around, anytime.” I know I’m pleading. You don’t even look at me. “Please. Just stop.” I do.
Summer Chan finds Houston, Texas, much less dreary than her native Seattle, but bemoans the lack of nearby hiking.