When it was sticky cool at night, he’d pull her hair up off her neck and spin it like a pinwheel. “You could be anything,” he would say. “You could be a preschool teacher.” She waited for him to add, “For dragons! For wallabies! For elephants!” but he didn’t. On her back, his hands were as flat as he was. In her head, she saw herself breaking each of his faithless, unimaginative knuckles. Still, she let him lead her around the room in waltzes and foxtrots, the smell of sweat rising from his skin like
Chanel Dubofsky is a writer and educator in New York City. Her essays have been published in the Forward, Tablet and the Pursuit of Harpyness, and her fiction in Atticus Review, Staccato, Quick Fiction, Dogzplot, and is forthcoming in HamLit, Blue Five Notebook, Pure Slush and Euonia Review. She blogs at Diverge–www.idiverge.wordpress.com.