Sally is thinking

Sally is thinking; she’s thinking about her life so far, and what she had for breakfast way back on Monday when she still felt like eating. She’s thinking about what she sees in the trees as they are flipping past the windows, and why the neighbors just exploded something on the sidewalk. She thinks about exploding things all the time: the loud cars and trucks that run past her window, and how they’re so obnoxious, she wishes they would just blow up in front of her and be done with it. She thinks about the man whistling as he shuts the car door, and how he yells epithets at his girlfriend for no reason other than he can and he wants to. She thinks about a nap and feeling better some day, about what may happen when she closes her eyes and dreams; if she will be back on the streets of Brooklyn, the day her hips began to hurt for no reason at all. Or maybe she’ll dream of a field—a nice field somewhere quiet, away from the cars and car doors and strange men yelling on street corners. Somewhere with beautiful sun, a kind breeze, and a long stretch of soft wheat so she can run, run, run.

Sally is thinking.