was going into that small Iceland diner
with only wool socks over black leggings
on my skinny tanned shins
(red Converse, soaked with saltwater,
still drying in the rental car,
sticky licorice jammed between seats).

Don't remember what I ordered,
only remember the way the waitress
smiled at me, in spite of my feet.
I felt so strongly that I was breaking
an unspoken rule—little did I know
how many I'd break in the months to come.