Catcalls

I don't know if it's what I was wearing. It was just something I threw on, a white camisole and some tight khaki shorts. The legs are so tight that when I sit down they press into my thighs, making little bulges. No makeup. I hadn't done anything to my hair except brush it.

I ride the bus every day. The stop that takes me home is right near an intersection, so when the light turns red, I'm the one thing you have to look at. I've often thought it would be a great place to put something subversive in... just shove a whole rock band in the kiosk to serenade everyone stuck in traffic. But usually there's just me, exhausted, hungry, and reading my book.

"Damn!"

I looked up. There was a white car, and it seemed to be full of boys.

"Hey girl," said one. He wasn't like the middle-aged black guys that usually hit on me. He was tan, short cropped dark hair, my age. Cute. His eyes were shut away behind sunglasses. I smirked at him, unsure if I was about to be heckled.

He recited a string of numbers-- his phone number, evaporating in the hot air, too much to remember. Still, no boy had ever given it to me before like that, on the spot.

Then I realized he was in a car full of clones. There were four of them, and they all seemed to be tan, sunglassed, short haired and grinning. I looked down at my book, confused and shy.

The car drove off. The heat rose off the pavement in waves.

I wasn't terribly disappointed I couldn't remember his number--he probably forgot about it as soon as the light changed. Perhaps they all looked alike because they were a car full of Midshipmen on leave.

Or perhaps, somewhere in my tiny town, there is a car full of cocky wandering FAs, all wearing white and throwing out their phone numbers to lonely-looking fat girls.