From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Tactile
I sit in my scratchy wool coat, turning a Rubik’s Cube over in my hands; the sticker-covered plastic feels cold and cheap, a fragile geometric puzzle mirroring the fractured geopolitics of the Soviet collapse. I drop a handful of change onto the counter for a single loaf of bread, annoyed that fifty cents barely buys a meal anymore while the radio croons about a "Lady" in the background. The synth-pop beat feels fresh against the winter chill, yet the sharp silhouette of my mother’s shoulder pads reminds me of the rigid, militaristic tension building as Reagan prepares to take the stage. I can smell the hairspray from her perm hanging in the air like a chemical fog, a glossy veneer masking the very real fear of the nuclear silos humming just beyond the horizon.