From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
The rough wool of my breeches chafes against my shins as I crouch on the rug, clicking these new notched redwood Lincoln Logs together to build a fort I’ll likely kick over later. Ma is in the kitchen hollering about the milk boycott again, but I’m more sore that a lousy loaf of rye took my last $0.06, leaving me flat broke for the picture show. I reach up to click the toggle light switch just to feel that sharp, electric snap under my thumb, pretending the thrum of the city outside is the low drone of a submachine gun. In the parlor, the phonograph scratchily wheezes out "Poor Butterfly," the needles scratching against the wax while I dream of ditching this stuffy house for something with more grit.