Rhiannon Abby O’Brien

RHIANNON Abby O'Brien

This bruised dusk is lonely. She arrives late with a droop to her neck, a roll to her shoulders, and a lazy smile. She speaks with a low, gravelly lilt as she drapes herself over that olive armchair hiding in the corner. I can’t tell what she has tucked behind her ear, but it catches the light as she tells me:

you know the trees have it in for me, right? YOUR CAR IS TOO HOT your hair looks better when it’s pulled away from your neck.

It’s all idle talk until she’s honest, and all you can hear is the regret in her voice. (I’ll never ask exactly what she regrets but it will keep me up at night) listen, kid, leave the door open for me, won’t you?

I know she’ll be back tomorrow with the same tousled grin and haphazard hair. She never runs to my doorstep, but rather walks away with a cavalier, long-legged swagger, that makes me think everyone knows I’ve sold a piece of myself, So I can feel the comedown in my ears and my fingertips.