On Monday Everything Is Just The Same
it was impossible, impossible to her. that one night there could be lights on her hands, pink, green, red: that there could be lights and that the hands were striking keys, shiny black and white keys, and that the entire frame of her vision could be filled with just that: hands; lights; keys: keys; lights; hands.
but on monday that everything was just the same. she was on the bus, feeling the floor rumble against her feet, hearing the muffled tin-hit of the bell, her left hip warm from the press of the man on her left.
it was like she had a secret: look at her now; and yes, you see trailing hems and hooded top zipped high. you see hands and mouth fidgeting; hands feeding ends of hair into mouth, teeth grinding tips of hair into mulch.
but saturday night, her eyes saw a pop video: lights; hands; keys: keys; hands; lights. and she'd been in the pop video; inside it. it had swallowed her up and she moved around in there, like it was an aquarium and she'd got right in and was there, being stared at, shiny like a fish.