Friday Night by Julie Brooks Barbour There were too many sounds offering themselves among the crowd, so you chose one that revved and sputtered, a motorbike to be taken to dirt roads. With a friend you took it onto the streets after sunset, after workers had come home and eaten supper and televisions flickered from front rooms. You made a ruckus of the night, shouting and laughing, your friend giving the small motor speed while you held on, arms wrapped around his torso, the first boy who’d ever let you get so close. Friday night, flying among houses and trees, charging through a church parking lot, the air rippled your skin. The motor gasped as it slowed, as you reached the end. You hopped off and offered your seat to another girl, adrenaline still pulsing in you, the scent of the dark, its campfire smoke and dew, in your hair.
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Santa Fe Literary Review 2014