A Belated Sunday Six

A belated six sentences for Sunday, February 2:

Sometimes, driving home, I find myself thinking of you. I don’t know what it is that reminds me—yellows squares of train windows sliding by, lights hanging in unfinished buildings, neon signs for hospitals, I don’t know. But sometimes you come back to me so vividly:

Sitting knock-kneed on the Metro in your school skirt on Friday afternoons. Dancing to the radio in my parents’ basement, your hair swinging, a curtain around you. That slow, conspiratorial smile as you leaned forward to whisper something secret in my ear.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Fiction

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s