Tracy

Tracy was my buddy, my short little buddy.  For a time, she was my friend.   Blonde and blue eyes, her childlike smile - this is where the tears would be if I could cry. But I can't; botched facelift. I loved it when she would giggle. She would make me giggle. She liked my pop culture references and I felt that's all that I had because I had't read a book in years.  In school, she probably wasn't a good student but already knew all the vocabulary words.

She wasn't so little. Strong hips, breasts like a cluster of grapes. She was a bit older than me and great artists steal.

I told her about my Kurt Cobain obsession years and how silly I feel now when I wouldn't shower for days and have my mom wash my new clothes multiple times before I would wear them to middle school. She told me she cried the day Bradley Knowles died. I felt so phony.  We would share my iPhone iPod earpiece and laugh about the physical awkwardness and whether we should bop our heads in unison our something. I told her I was never good at concerts; I never knew what to do with myself.

We were friends for 30 days, more or less. We would make collages together out of magazine clippings and talk about how we would go shopping together after we got out of here.

We parted ways. I left with the insurance and she was busted for using in her room. We had swapped numbers like sincere friends do, but we were still primal and looked to fulfill our common purpose...so we headed to Santa Ana.

I guess we can drop the childlike smile. Seated next to each other on the couch of an old man and teenage girl, her eyes were gone and words were blurred. She may die but she would probably just sleep, and then I left.