From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
The stiff fibers of my wool knickers chafe something fierce as I slouch against the brickwork, shuffling a deck of Rook cards until the waxy linen finish grows warm under my thumbs. It’s a bally shame about that poet, Watson, refusing to speak in Philadelphia—my father’s been huffing over the morning paper as if the man personally insulted our tea service. I just want to slip into my heavy tweed coat and find a girl who’ll hum "Put On Your Old Grey Bonnet" while we skate. The air smells of coal smoke and the metallic snap of winter, making me crave the burnt-sugar crunch of toast from that new electric contraption in the kitchen.