Countdown

something about the air stinging my cheeks, my hair whipping sparks against the cold, my shivery stride, made him call me "cute," but I didn't feel adorable and small at that moment, only half of me laying down footsteps next to his, the other part imagining the distant countdown of my chances to fall in love with him. wincing. maybe next time. my shoes are too small for balance on these cobblestones, swaying on paths I must have memorized, sverving, heels leading my thoughts in amazon wanderings, mapless. It’s too bad that kissing a boy is not a strategic manuever. later, I catch myself looking wistfully at a boy with quick, sure hands frying rice.