Everything Here Is the Best Thing Ever

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By two o’clock the sky had gone to ash. Amber pushed a blond lock behind her ear, stray hairs glancing off a steel row of studs driven like garden stakes through the cartilage of her helix and lobe. Her other hand still held the roll of duct tape with which she’d reinforced the window, the glass marked now with a dull silver X. She looked around it, out at the world. She wore pre-faded jeans and a small tee shirt. Stylish, but not quite in style, the wardrobe alluded to punk rock, outlet malls, and other holdover habits from high school. A year later, when you saw her in her no-longer-quite-new skirt (the plaid one so short you kept catching glimpses of her white white underwear) she seemed like someone else altogether. You were all wet from having jumped into the aboveground pool. She gave you an old Misfits tee shirt and a pair of JNCOs to wear while your clothes dried, and you thought, Oh, I remember Amber now.

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