i never wait by the phoneMature

Cicadas buzzing over Modest Mouse chords.

-funny, what’s so modest about it-

She flicks a sweat bee off her leg with a stalk of grass, pops the end into her mouth and bites. Crunchcrunch—cell walls, celluloid, cellulite—no, too young for that. Too young for anything. Too goddamn young for him.

She tears the stem with her teeth. Something that smells so sweet drying and dying on the ground shouldn’t taste so bitter. She smiles anyway and keeps chewing. Dramamine swirls into The Last High, courtesy of The Dandy Warhols.

-another funny name, considering-

She laughs, switches it to Pavement. Ah—music, it’s all music. That’s always what draws her to them, isn’t it? Not sure if it’s the hands cradling guitar necks or the fingers plucking bass or the voice next to hers. Does she love them or just the music? Not sure, not sure, not sure.

-it could be a Freudian thing-

She curses and swats viciously at a fly. She hates them the most, hates their tiny mouths by her ankle—

-not dead yet, for chrissake-

“Pisces: Long ago you fell in love with a like-minded rebel and your heart was broken. Now it’s all paid off. Your affections are appreciated and reciprocated.”

She spits weedy filaments. Never believed in horoscopes, why should she start now? Besides, he probably didn’t even call last night. Wouldn’t know, though. Fuckin’ phone broke for good.

Damn, she needs a smoke.

-ugh—bet he’s not thinking of me right now-

Winces at an ambiguous insect bite on the top of her foot. What’s a rebel, anyway? And how long ago was long ago? She sure as hell can’t remember. She tries not to, at least.

She tosses the chewed carcass of the grass stalk. Bites her lip.

-cloves taste like Christmas morning-

Giggles absently. Christmas in July—no, August. Almost September. Soon there will be no more cicadas to sing along with her music.

A small butterfly lands on the moss in front of her cold concrete step. Its wings are beautifully colored and a veined stain-glass window—red-orange like the glowing tip of a cigarette but grey as ash when folded. Her wings are folded, too, but she doubts that they will be any less unremarkable upon opening.

Sighs. Still wants a smoke.

-the sun is getting too close-

She examines her dirty knees and chipped silver fingernail polish. Hey. She’s not that bad. Hell, maybe even pretty. She stands up sleepily and stretches her arms up to the washed-out sky.

Maybe she’ll send him an e-mail or something.

The End

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