17

He’s used to successful conquests. Master of the art of woo, can pull them in: velocity hundreds of miles an hour - and they stick to him atom to atom until he has to pry them off, gently most times, sometimes like a burned worm on concrete. So we were walking in the grocery store and we see her. Shy. IQ – double-wide. Hair like those pictures you see of Jesus, body like a dancer, eyes like pecans.

And I say hi because I know her and all, and she says hi back and we talk for awhile. Notice him in the background making these awful love faces, all slick and smooth like glass. Want to tell him it won’t work on her. She’s not that kind, can’t be bought, sold, or won. Is oblivious to everyone but that melon-legged girl, a girl who walks like a bear, talks like a child, loves like she’s going some place. Want to tell him that I saw them in the parking lot at school yesterday, hands in each other’s hair, bodies pressed, making a scene so the mother’s covered eyes and the boys pointed, gape-jawed.

He can’t read my body language. Doesn’t understand. Thinks too much of himself. Brings his arm from his side and grips her on her arm.

I’m Tony

He says. She’s horrified. Flinches. Wish I didn’t have to see her flinch. Leaves me feeling loose in my skin and uncomfortable. Cuz it’s my fault

Come on Tony, let’s go

I say. He doesn’t get it. Starts telling her about how he wins races, runs in the rain with his calves burning burning and heart bumping, thumping and wins them by miles, by millennia, by the make of his red racing shoes, by his father’s DNA, by luck and wit and cock and all things holy.

I have to go

She says. And now Tony is horrified. Then she turns and walks off. Not even saying goodbye to me. Tony jerks his head, all like I don’t give a fuck

What a bitch

He says