Thursday September 25, 2014
From Jess’ lamp speech
One of the girls shrieks and many of the women on the subway car (all of the women on the subway car, save one, who grew up in the country and never went through this particular phase in this particular way) who are over twenty five (and a few who are under, yes, wiser than their years, I was, in some ways, yes) feel a pang of agony at the loudness and the shrillness and the too-tight dresses. They see their former selves, yes. They see the train-wreck of youth. They see the plaid-shirt over white V-neck, clean-shaven guys they kissed, they will kiss. They smell the cologne, the perfume, the over-the-counter morning after pill. They taste the Malibu, the Diet Cola, the Salt and Vinegar chips eaten on the early morning ride homewards, a whole bag, a whole bag of guilt and sodium, a whole bag of pleasure and chapped lips.