We’re free, free, free, with overgrown feathered bangs, hand-me-down tees on matchstick frames, sucking down raspberry Slurpees on steaming sidewalks, over worn paths to chlorine cool, two-cent fireballs burning our tongues as we pile atop saddle and handlebars, wobbling, then cruising, tasting hair while we yell, Car coming! before backyard drags on candy cigarettes, then Marlboros, lighters flicking, singed hairs reeking, laughing, dizzy and nicotine charged, until we’re home, sprawled on matted carpet, latchkey sisters, grinding wads of bubblegum while sugar trickles down our throats, divorce on our minds but not our lips, Annie Lennox leading us in song.
Carly Anderson's writing has appeared in several literary journals, including Brevity and 100 Word Story. She lives in NYC with her husband, daughter, and kitty. Finder her at @carlyanderson.bsky.social