by Marie Mosley
We agreed to meet near the hole in the fence where the Italian girls go to sneak cigarettes. I wait for him and watch a day moon rise up to frown down on New Jersey. I think about my mom's face peeking out of our apartment door - her eyes scanning the street, searching for me. He arrives smelling like a movie theater. His hands move faster than his tongue. Fingers flicker over the clasp of my bra, but I can't let him, so I pop my hands out of his back pockets and run toward the moon.
Marie Mosley doesn't like to talk about herself in the third person.