Sitting on a stool, smoking by the door, tipping her elbow in favor of—whatever—wondering why it must always be she who leaves even if she would like to stay—the night, maybe—and why she must always be there to watch people find—happiness, if you can call it that—or whatever you call the thing they told her as a child she should chase down—the thing you can’t just sit around waiting for—the thing you must make yourself pretty to be able to acquire—what:
why people are always trying to get her to leave—whoever she is with at the time—is because she probably will—not that it wouldn’t be lovely to have a home with a small garden outside—but young, fair brides so quickly become—the hags that lust after cabbage—and so she continues to live this life—free of baggage this life—of what can you call this—substitution—at least she has seen more nights colored in gin—than your average smart person—she tells everyone else it is better to be the Chlorine Atom Girl, light on your feet and ready to head wherever whoever pulls you next—the uglier girls will need this gravity more than you do—it is better to be wanted and reluctant—at least you have the option—to get the hell out when you need to—which in her case is often—she fell in love with this guy once—but that was before—she was—herself:
skinny dipping, tipsy driving, mouthing lyrics to songs she’s sung to too many people—it was special to them at least—if that isn’t selflessness, what is—this—she—likes it best—painting her nails at night with the window open and the radio on—when she is alone, when she can sing to herself—but she finds it hard to resist:
the company of all these men who know—things she doesn’t—she likes drowning—in textbook definitions they recite with all the might they can muster—the man beside her tells the weather—for a living he looks at a screen that tells you where the clouds will be, today—how does it feel she wants to ask him—to be sure—but they are never interested in her talking—much—they always want to know about—the adventures:
biting her lip, trying to keep herself from rolling her eyes, she tells them about—bathroom stalls, stolen nailpolish hauls—when she was fourteen—she tells them about the other men who are just like them—yes, you are an adventure—you are exploit—you are exception:
she leaves the weatherman on a Tuesday—it is raining—she knows he will be married within the year—he will find—the person he will steal cabbage for—he will get up at three in the morning every day for the rest of his life and warn us:
the floods are coming, driven as if from hell by wind travelling at godspeed—and she knows that she will own the cabbage patch and the black cat and that in water—chlorine—always—comes undone.
