142 The Meadow I’m Nobody to Judge Heather Arbuckle In line for gas, I stand tapping the glossy plastic of my American Express against the seam of my slacks. In front of me you stand six-feet tall, tussled blonde hair, still wearing your letterman jacket as if to shove your legacy down our throats like you did every day senior year. I’ll never forget how you embarrassed me in the hallways for my paper bag lunches or the busted buttons on my hand-me-down coat. How I used to cry in sharpie tagged bathroom stalls, and wish your prestigious existence would be wiped out by disease or famine. At the pump next to mine your car sputters. Against it a braless woman exhales cigarette smoke, and rubs the bulging womb of her belly. Out from under the hood, the blue of your jacket is stained in oil, skin worn thin and tired. Head down you mutter to me, You gotta dollar? I slide the gold zipper of my purse open, and hand you a five. You smile, and I can see darkness through the gap that now separates your front tooth from your canine.
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