Shuly Xóchitl Cawood
I can’t believe you said yes to another date, she says to me,
one elbow on the car’s open window. Wind blows her ponytail high
nearly lifting it away.
What’s the big deal? I ask.
Duh, she says, rolling her eyes. Because he’s not your type.
What’s my type? I ask, flicking on the AC and closing all the windows.
Cuter, for one, she says. And richer.
He’s got plenty of money.
He’s a store manager, she says. That’s never enough.
For life, she says. And for last-minute trips to Paris.
(She aims the AC vents toward her.)
I laugh and say, I’ve never taken those kinds of trips.
Yeah, she says, slumping down in her seat. But now you never will.