I am Alice Colgate, and I am seventeen years old, and I am sitting here at my desk trying to find the right word. The lot at night blows falling leaves alone/Stardust sparkling in brown— Rivulets? No, too watery.
What is it driving this stupid verse anyway? Whimsy? Genius? Boredom, more like it. I wonder what Anna’s doing right now. Is she going off with…?
Doesn’t matter now. Just gotta get through this poem for tomorrow.
The reel’s last chords vibrate into the walls and I bow—a funny curtsying, bending twist of my skirt—at my partner.