Leda
Friday night, hot and loud. My hair is sticking against the back of my neck, and someone elbows my spine hard enough to pitch me forward and send electric blue liquid sloshing over the rim of my cup. The boy standing across from me has to yell to be heard over the music—he’s asking me what sorority did I say I’m in, again? I lift my hand up to my mouth to suck liquid off the side of my fingers (bubblegum, astringent) and watch his eyes slip sluggishly across my chest. Finance major, for sure. Poolside at the country club in the summers, Aspen over winter break. I tell him I’m not in a sorority, I just came here with my roommate, and then realize I’m tired of being here.
