From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
The stiff rayon of my chemise sticks to my back in this heat, and the grit of the road feels thick against my T-strap heels. I stare at the station sign, my heart sinking to see gas has climbed to $0.30 a gallon again; at this rate, only a real big cheese will be able to keep a motor running while the rest of us starve. I clutch my daughter's Raggedy Andy, the coarse yarn hair itching my palms as I skim the headlines about German plots and Irish crimes. Everything feels like it’s fraying at the edges, just like the cheap cotton filling leaking from this doll’s side.