Solo

Those were better times for everyone I knew. The saxophone screamed from oiled fingers saying something I can’t remember. Snow came in the winter and left when it was no longer wanted. Even the rain had a job, which was to remind us that nothing dies as slow as the sadness of teenagers. I’m lying: I never understood what the saxophone was saying, the reason our hair was so afraid of our heads, the true purpose of shoulder pads. Bodies piled up under the streets. I kept my windows up to avoid the smell and hung those little green...

Read More