gas station

"I like your hair," a girl tells me timidly in the 7-11, half my height and made even smaller by the huge gray hoodie swallowing her in warmth and nubby cat ears. I wonder what she sees.

I wonder if she saw me sitting on the curb dragging smoke into my lungs, hard-eyed as I flip-flopped my way into the little store. I wonder if she knows I braced my hands on the sink like some Cyberpunk character in the bathroom, sucking down shaky breaths and telling myself it was me looking back in that pane of glass, silver hooped and thinner than I've been in years. I wonder if she knows that I wanted to take it all back as soon as she spoke, wanted to hide my bandaged arm and be someone she should actually be looking up to. I wonder if she knows I hope more than anything she'll end up better than me.