she was walking down 33rd street tonight at just around 8 o' clock. corduroys and pig shirt. the corduroys her father's handmedowns. old calvins she'd worn since 8th grade, premiering them in tech class. so, hipped with all this corded softness, feeling like her center of gravity had dropped that few inches. god knows she didn't need even shorter leg-karma. but yes. and the yellow flip-flops (grendha!) which were comfort shoes. slapping against the rough pavement in the soft darkness. flip-flops carrying her across streets, around lightposts. she clung to her left shirt-sleeve with her right hand. she was thinking.

mm. a bit of a floppy gait, yes? chamber-music-meeting bound. a feeling of charging up in the steamy night. so as she passed by the enshadowed wall before the auditorium she also passed by a man huddled in the bus stop.

not huddled up as a boy the last morning he spends at the lake: encrusted with fatigue and a flannel shirt. huddled in, huddled up as this man was. latent movement and intention under a flattened baseball cap.

she almost passed by. in the midst of her blind warmth and perambulating girlhood, a hand interrupted her. a clutch and moan at her left shirt-sleeve. all she could think was that she couldn't run well in flip-flops. she couldn't kick well in flip-flops. she couldn't...

blah. okay so people think i'm a slacker here too. the slacker who's fun to be with. no more.