Malleable, fragile, inconsistent. My name is the drunken mother of all modern names. One person one day, a stranger the next. When I was nine, I was Harmony and Nobility and Prettiness. At eleven I fleetingly became Generous, Gorgeous, and Popular. I turned thirteen and was the "Defender of Mankind" despite the fact that I couldn’t defend my own ego. I was fifteen when I became a princess. I hated being a princess, I was no Alexandra of Denmark. Talk about shoes to fill, forget that. I turned sixteen and became stubborn, materialistic. But no one takes a tall skinny black girl named ‘Drae’ very seriously. I was back to being Alexander the Great, the defender. Maybe not of mankind, but at least of my own kaleidoscope identity.

“Would a ‘happy birthday’
be in bad taste?”

Keys chimed,
glasses clinked,
she adjusted her hair
and he adjusted his gaze.

“You’re not the first one
to say that today.”

Coffee steamed,
rigid
smiles beamed.

“How’d you know her?”

he picks at a napkin,
she plays with her collar.

“She was my sister,”

she sips at her drink,
he twists at his ring.

A fork hits the ground,
and she turns around.

“Sorry about the timing.”

he folds his hands,
her eyes find her lap.

“I can’t do this,”

her wooden chair screams
and watery eyes shine.

“I­”

his hand raises up,
but falls just in time.

If he could get a chance,
another

But she had to get away,
cover

She’s already gone,
and he didn’t get her number.