Yesterday I shaved my legs, quick. Packed up and boarded a bus to toms river, nj. There I sat for four hours because why not. Outside of a little colonial bus station that was more like a kiosk. I laid in the grass and read my book, the use of man. I read for hours about vindictive men and their urges until I looked up and three guys were around me. I shrugged them off. A bus driver motioned me over and told me to move, that area wasn’t safe. I thanked him. I had known the same thing, but I wasn’t going to move. I was too comfortable. Perhaps he knew that, nudged: come on. Don’t be stupid. (but he probably actually thought I was stupid, blonde, and naive.) I moved to the other side of the building and found a tree I could lean up against and not get rashes from the grass. Beetles landed on me. Another man addressed me by miss and warned me about ticks. I smiled and thanked him, though I’m very aware of ticks.
I finished my book and it broke my heart. It concluded that memories are all we have, especially when things are awful. Memories of feeling and moments of connection and inexplicable bliss shared—that can be only confirmed by the glint in a person’s eye, their irregular heartbeat, telepathy. i and d picked me up from the bus station right after that. My skin was red from the grass and the sun.
We go to new jersey for the fourth every year and have since we were seven or something.
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