We Looked like Giants Alyssa Pederson
Parked on Sandalwood Street, in front of the big white house with the white stone pillars, next to the railroad tracks six blocks from your ticking mother, adding the minutes until you’re late, we looked like giants folded in the backseat of the Lumina, trying to tease our boundaries and come as close as possible to going too far at sixteen. Your feet bent around the armrest my head crushed against the window, seatbelt pressed into the back of my neck as you would kiss my waistline route and my muscles would soften and bend like rubber. Our clothes spread about dirty floor mats, we twisted and crumbled in our tiny box leaving our giant handprints on the foggy glass, then turning over on our crooked backs and we would laugh, moving belt buckles from bruising our satisfied bones because we looked like giants when we were happy making steam and not making love.
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