He was quiet, like a church.
She looked up, and he looked away.
She needed four or six sometimes.
To see herself in the mirror.
To be real. To be really real.
Like that woman there.
Whose dress matched her shoes.
Or the guy with the veins in his face.
She took them four or six at a time.
Four or five times a day.
He looked up.
He looked past her.
He was quiet, like a church.
She wished she could be like the girl over there.
In the cutoff shorts.
Or the guy buying crayons and condoms.
They looked in the mirror and they saw a face.
Not a line with a squiggle through it.
She wished she was tall.
Or funny or round.
She wished she could narrow her eyes.
Is that her, they asked.
The pharmacist nodded.
He turned away like a Judas goat.
The radio crackled.
The cop held her arm.
They walked her out with handcuffs on.
Past the dress and past the condoms.
Past the veins and cutoff shorts.
They stared.
They were really real.
Not a line.
With a squiggle through it.