The summer before, the clean-shaven men at concerts, the ocean, at grimy gas stations, would gaze at me with their sallow eyes and creep closer, stuffing their tarnished wedding rings into their pockets. I pretend I don't notice the approach.
I'm sweetheart now, and the world is dying to know about my day. The artless small talk ****** my cheeks a shameful red-- always this crass, unsolicited acupuncture.
Now, I'm darling. I'm baby-- my age the next delicate question laid across their taste buds.
A year ago, I could blush and remind them of my mere seventeen trips around the sun, and off they'd retreat as if the law were the only thing keeping my clothes on my body.
The eighteenth trip has come and past; from here on out I fly alone, braving the flocks of pitiful predators.