They just weren’t coming in. I am talking about my breasts. Two by two my friends’ appeared, neatly tucked into training bras and then, once they were properly primed, into full-on cups with wires and pads. I tried one on in the mall — just to see — while my friend Renana stole a thong. With my T-shirt on, standing still, I could pass for a girl who could get felt up, but when I twisted my torso just an inch, the unfilled cups gave way to flat. I bought the bra anyway, for 36 of my parents’ bucks.
I didn’t want to be flat anymore. The land was flat and the pop was flat but it wasn’t fair to be this flat, not as a girl, not for me, not in the summer with the skimpy shirts and the bathing suits and the other girls.
When it's too hard to get on from the past, the best thing you can do is stop thinking, stop trying. Get a hobby, a new cat. Addict yourself to whatever little thing you have found as your grind. Your drink, your pill, your loveseat naps. It can work. You grind into it. And then Eric Eicher enrolls in your poetry class, transfers in a week after the semester starts.
I'm the house sitter for a family that's never coming back. They didn't take their keys with them and the cat has stopped looking out the window. His name is Hyde, but I keep it at cat. They're not coming back, I say to him. Is it something you did? I fill a tin with wet food. We sit on the yellow sofa in the room where the cat is not allowed and have staring contests. He always wins.