Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

met this girl once

I knew L__ had beautiful wings underneath her clothes, but she never showed them to me. “If I take my wings out, I’ll fly just fly away,” she said. We were on the front porch of her parent’s house in east Dallas. We were alone there, with the streetlamps behind us and the weather-beaten bric-a-brac her father had put all over the porch. Her parents had a tacky front porch.
I ran my hands through her black hair. “Are they feathered wings?” I asked.
“Of course they are,” she said, “What do you think I have, batwings?”
“Are the feathers white?”
“I’m Mexican. Why the fuck would I have white wings?”
“Because you’re an angel,” I said. I touched the side of her face even though she was scowling at me. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Only white people make white wings,” she said, “I’m no fucking angel, J__. And I don’t have white wings. Leave my wings out of this. I don’t want to talk about them.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Not if you have to ask,” she said, “Good night, J__.”

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