By Violet Mitchell
The squeaking porch swing and
my heels scraping the sidewalk paint a
metallic waltz lit by the infected orange of
the mercury light. I imagine myself swing dancing to this creaky orchestra at the
Mercury Café. I’d wear sturdy black heels
and watch Kate’s eyes squint in the corners
when the hem of my skirt flails out like an
untamed wave. On all the dances, I’d take
the lead and steer our feet. She’d kiss my
cheek and say, I never want to live without
you. And I’d whisper back, just follow me.
