I don't know if it was cold but I stayed close to the fire-pit and drank my coconut juice (young, with pulp!) and listened vaguely to La Roux. It's strange to be known (not like haha can I get your autograph and a picture known) but people say hey, Sabrina and I'm looking at them like maybe they've been lurking on my Facebook, which is ridiculous because it's private. But seriously, who are you? And for that matter, who am I?
My friend vanished but people filtered out to the deck where I sat on a railing. I would have jumped if the sand didn't look so hard and uninviting. I gave J Alfred Prufrock a run for his money, the sky stretched out above us like a velvet Elvis painting and none of the girls talking about anything but cute shoes and who's a skank.
It's all about finding something in the back of your mother's closet, some relic from the sixties that might make you more relevant to that guy you wanna take home. I am guilty of wearing my mother's love beads doubled around my neck. She tells me how she spent hours stringing them herself, and I wonder why she did it. They work, but I'm no true hippie.
I am not the only girl with chipped red nail polish and tired eyes and a careful studied nonchalance but I am the only girl who has a chance.