“Let’s open the window.”


“But it’s so hot in here.” Pause. “We could have walked, you know.”

“It’s too far.”

“No it’s not!”

“You’re dumb.”

The car stops, later on, and they scatter out; hair-braided and tucked in black jackets pulled over black skin. It’s the first day it feels like spring. They dance in front of the window and I wonder, is it open? Learning through the different patterns, the change in light on skin, face, and hair. As they pass the open tile. Through, too, the cool breeze which comes on as they go, as the car picks up speed, and pecks us all on the cheek.

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