I am a graduate student studying gerontology. For hands-on experience, I work in an adult residential facility. One morning, assisting a woman as she dresses, she stills me by placing her hand on my arm. "I just want you to know," she tells me, "that I think you're pretty, even if you are black."
My boyfriend and I are arguing. Despite his attempts to reconcile, I remain stubborn. One morning, when I get off from my graveyard job, I go to his apartment. I sit in my car, decide finally that he has not "paid" enough and drive home.
I plan to return later, but I end up sleeping most of the day and then run errands before my night shift begins again.
In the morning, I am reading the newspaper at work. I recognize the tennie shoes in the photograph above the story about a young man stabbed at his home following an argument.
Lots of people live over there, I tell myself in response to the mention of the street.
The man, dead now, is not named because family must be contacted first.
My shift over, I clock out and rush to my boyfriend's apartment. Standing on the bloodied porch, I knock and knock and knock, wait for an answer.
Dear Gwen,
Thanks for warming up the crowd.
Your 'opening act'
— Colin Quinn
I am often mistaken to be younger than I am. Ten to twenty years, depending.
I go to a parent-teacher conference at my daughter's school. "I'm here for Kailah," I say, entering the classroom.
The teacher looks at me and asks, "Are you her older sister?"
* * *
The guy at the deli is younger than me, but he flirts anyway. One day, in response, I say, "I can't go out with you, Darren. You're like half my age."
He smiles at me. "Think stamina," he says.
Dear Author,
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I am a little girl. A hand slips into my panties and steals away my innocence. How old was I?
I can't remember.
Funny, that it is this my mind has chosen to forget.
My mother catches the way my eyes are suddenly alert to the open bag of M&M's in the candy aisle in Safeway. She warns me not to bother them.
Soon as I can, my mother busy comparing prices, I slip back to the aisle and fill my pockets with the rainbow colored bits.
Throwing my head back in joy, I let a handful drop into my mouth.
My bliss is short-lived. An undercover cop, posing as a customer, catches me.
He asks me why I opened the bag and took the candy.
I tell him I didn't open the bag.
He delivers me to my mother and tells her that she'll have to pay for the candy I opened.
I yell, argue that I DID NOT open the bag.
I may steal, but I do not lie.