Growing up, she and I lived in the same neighborhood. We’d ride the school bus home together and sometimes I’d go over to her house and we’d play the way kids play. I’ve been there at weird moments in her life. She’s always had the thickest hair and one time when she was four or five or six she took a pair Fiskars scissors and cut loads of it off. It fucked her momma up when she saw her sheared locks spread across the carpet like fallen tassels. I think it kind of fucked me up too. I still hate when pretty girls cut their hair. We’re all grown up now in faraway places and on rare occasions we’ll find ourselves in the same city and when we do, we’re like magnets. It’s always been this way. She’s not my human. But she feels something close to it on nights when she’s drunk and I’m drunk and by happenstance, we end up at the same club. We play it cool, at first. But, sooner or later we’ll start having a conversation we shouldn’t be having and we’ll start looking at each other in ways we shouldn’t be looking at each other and before we find ourselves doing something we shouldn’t be doing, one of our homies will pull us away. And, I’ll ride home in an Uber or a cab, alone, smoking a cigarette until the driver tells me to stop, wondering whether or not our childhood crushes every truly fade away.
By Cole Schafer.
P.S. One day these one-minute writings will be a big book called “One Minute, Please.” Can I let you know when that day comes? You can say yes, here.