Passing a cigarette in the parking lot,

the words of the actress echoed in your

mouth. “I’m not sorry. Are you sorry?”

I was 16 and I watched your mouth

as I waited for the right moment

to tell you that I liked girls.

You had a long sloping jaw and a space

between your front teeth, a sidelong glance

that made me feel invisible. It was a brief

friendship, and I was sorry, but because

I didn’t know how to read you.

Were you? Weren’t you?

My hand grazed yours and I felt sick

in my stomach. You didn’t flinch.

You danced in the car lights like they did in

Natural Born Killers, your long arms sweeping

up slowly toward a sky heavy with Florida

rain clouds, threatening. You were daring

it to rain, in a white button down shirt with no bra,

your breasts like car lighters about to pop

with their circular heat.