Weekly feature by: Jen Breen
I thought you were a girl Dean jumping from the pages of “On the Road.” I didn’t understand what the stories meant until the night I saw you selling yourself on South Street in a white Marilyn Monroe dress, spike heels. You always wear white when you’re bad.
You acted like I embarrassed you—to drive me off. Like we were 14 and I wouldn’t know. Too many summers had passed to still see that hazy curtain of what we want to believe. Your laugh blended with the tired horns and thumping radios suspended in traffic as you sunk into the sidewalk and the adventures melted into dog-eared postcards.