Their voices are low, that couple
in the corner. Hushed, reverential.
Their quiet laughter far too intimate
for such close quarters. Squirming,
childlike, the chair’s sharp edges
digging into her hips, she angles
herself away from the interlopers,
but cannot unhear their secrets—
secrets among girls, blossoming,
pale in the hummingbird flourescence.
Her lips compress, twisting into a tilde
of disdain, as she draws herself up,
spine rigid as a flagpole, signaling
the impatience of an unwilling heart.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
