Sarah Rose // Features Editor
Valeriya Kim // Illustration
Mom always said I had a silver tongue, and now I had a silver jaw to match. The cast made talking difficult, but I still found ways to talk myself into shitty, morally ambiguous affairs. If there’s a more ironic way to represent feeling like a dick than being a frequent flier to America’s dong, I’ve yet to find it. Florida’s iconic peninsular location attracts a lot of folks who are at the end of their rope.
I met Travis, the wife-beater-wearing, beercan philosopher of his own Zulu nation on a small municipal beach in the oppressive spring heat. He didn’t bother asking about the cast, the duct-taped combat boots or the oversized t-shirt from my de facto lover. He tossed me a frisbee and asked what was wrong.
We walked barefoot in the hot sand. Somewhere along the line, I forgot how to tell the truth to foreign hippies, that he had called me from the train tracks and refused to move until I lied about moving on.
Travis shook his head. “Whatever it is, stop living in the past, girl. You gotta stay on top of what’s right in front of you,” and in the garish glare of the sunshine state, the palm hit me like a train.