m y f a n w y    c o l l i n s



On 4th of July we talked Jackie into letting us out fifteen minutes early. The guys were waiting for us out on the corner of Newbury Street and Mass Ave, their silhouettes all hazy in the yellow light of smog and sea salt. Summerís gentle push of a hand. Summerís gentle push.

She walked between two boys and I hung back with Nick, whispering in his ear. Reminding him of how he brought me down to the river that time and balloons fell out of the sky. They fell like ribbons and he ran for them. Gave them to me. To me.

She told me the balloons were a coincidence. A firm believer in coincidence. Nothing was random. She knew how to look at boys from up beneath her lashes. She knew how to laugh. We wore the same lipstick color except hers was tipped inward and mine was tipped out.

We walked down to the Esplanade, no space but sound—garbled voices and the Pops over there—and the sun setting fiercely over the murky Charles. We drank wine straight from the bottle. The boys climbed up on top of some shed until the cops came along and made them get down off of there.

She smiled at the cops. They let it go. Be good, boys, they said. Be good.

That night we stood side by side on the grass and watched the sky explode, and explode, and later we climbed up on the roof of our building and sat right there in the middle, up high. And there were the stars. And there they were.



MYFANWY COLLIN's work has been published in Kenyon Review, AGNI, Cream City Review, Quick Fiction, Caketrain, Potomac Review, PANK and other venues.

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