It’s just a flare,

He says, steepled hands on his desk,

And I recall that confident girl in -

Was it 8th grade? -

In possibly the coolest jeans I’ve ever seen.

Skintight to the knee,

Then blossoming out like exuberant light blue tulips.

White paisley embroidery, right?

Possibly, he says, looking at me oddly.

I take a breath and my ribcage complains,

As dozens of tiny electric spiders crawl around my scapula.

No embroidery for me.

Still,

It’s just a flare.