by William Powley
When we stop at Navajo Junction, we see a girl’s braid drop down the center of her bare back. We ignore her as she sells with her brown fingers blue-green turquoise rings cheaply laid out at fifteen dollars each. She licks her brown lips, smiles when she sees my bare ring finger. I look away as she points at a ring zigzag by her hot pink toenails. Yet she looks into my cheek bones for one whole second, our meeting somehow permanent. When I hear the tailpipe on my father’s ’67 Chevy burst out a button of black smoke, in my mind I touch her lips, her brown cheeks with my fingers and run to the car.
