She floats. Even at the restaurant where she works nights and some days everyone else is greased like pigs and piglets but there she is behind the counter--floating. She’s a cure (the perfect cure) and hour-after burns that could have been serious but never rose to the occasion. She’s got those, been there, done that, sort of freckles. The kind that are scattered about, just a few, perfectly strewn across the face. They don’t yell or scream, they are just little bits of sun settled in all the right places. They are just sun that happened to fall into the right places. Even they float. I wonder if anyone else sees her. Am I alone? I’m still in line at this point and I can’t stop thinking: “Who is going to believe me?”
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