don’t fucking look at me

“Fuck them.” Michelle says. We’re walking down Division St, just a block from my house. “I just want to scream it sometimes. There are so many assholes. So, I had this idea for a shirt. Big bold letters—”

DON’T
FUCKING
LOOK
AT ME

“Don’t fucking look at me.” And her eyes crease in the direction of a beat-up car, slowing as it passes, two gasping teenage boys leaning from the windows, like their tongues are so big they can’t get enough air.

I’m sure she’d give them the finger if all ten weren’t busy rolling a cigarette.

“Clay and I were on the bus,” she says, “and this woman, this middle-aged black woman with a bunch of grocery bags, was standing at the front. Her back was to me but she was wearing this bright pink shirt. The shirt said, ‘Your face makes my cunt dry.’”

Cigarette rolled and ready, Michelle balances it between her smiling lips and turns her back to the wind.

“I want to be that lady,” she says.

Her voice is muffled.


Continue reading » shoot
This is part of “Radical Storytelling,” originally submitted to the SAIC Collections on 14 Dec 2013.

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