The New ERA
I wore the shirt, to the benefit concert and to the movies, until it smelled like both of us. I sweat kind of citric, more than a girl should.
I washed it Sunday morning, thinking of the day I washed Alex's socks. They probably weren't really his, and I suppose that's only the beginning of the pathetic and the sordid. Out of the wash the shirt smelled like an empty take-out carton.
Last year I wore the same two yellow tops all the time. This fall it was the blue tank I dyed a sick grey since. I'm wearing this shirt instead of the boys' red ringer tee now. It's faded black, with a green Irish angel whose wing is a harp and trumpet a Hurley logo. I want to dress like the kind of boy I still want, slim-fit t-shirts, straight-leg jeans, stripey thermals and battered shoes.
Suburbia's no savannah. I don't think they'll be fooled.