I Remember...II

I remember picking out the suitcase and the dress--matching but not at the same time.

I remember walking through NYC and getting catcalls.

I remember my heels clicking against the tiled floors in Manhattan.

I remember putting on lipstick this morning and wondering if it would be smudged by the end of the day.

I remember sitting on a bench next to a pair of black guys, who kept looking at me like they had questions they were afraid to share.

I remember one of them reaching into his pocket.

I remember getting tense, not-looking, trying to hide knowing that he was going for a switchblade.

I remember that morning when my younger sister Mona drew an S on my hand in fancy figure, done in pen, and told me it was good luck.

I remember trying to wash it off and failing.

I remember debating gloves, to cover it up, but deciding not to.

I remember the man who asked me to dance.

I remember he was lanky and awkward, dark eyes and muddy hair with a mouth too thin, eyes too spaced and an ugly personality to match.

I remember I said yes.

I remember dancing, led by strong arms, while the man complimented how fuckable I looked, how like a whore, a slut, in my pink dress.

I remember picking out that pink and white, frills and lace dress with Misha and Shizuku.

I remember trying it on, standing in the fitting room laughing that it barely passed my fingertips.

I remember whirls of pink and powder blue as we bought matching dresses, all of us.

I remember the room with the drawers, and I remember pulling my suitcase after me, led by the ugly man from the dance floor.

I remember seeing the rag.

I remember being amused, thinking ruefully that this was what I should have feared.

I remember being placed in the suitcase, and I remember, before he zipped it closed, that it was a tight fit.