by Tim Gilmore, 6/24/2012
1989. She bought all her shirts at thrift stores. This shirt was soft cotton, blue, patterned in white stars. Her hair was long and unbrushed, clean, tucked behind her ears. No makeup. Her beauty didn’t need it. Brown eyes. Smart eyes. You could look in her eyes and see how smart she was.
Three teenagers came into the club one night, tripping on acid. They stood in a corner for four hours.
Two months later, the three teenagers came back. They were too scared to dance. But they sat on a corner of a stage, took off their shoes, and dipped their toes rhythmically one way, then the other. They did this for 30 minutes, before a pretty girl with brown hair and intelligent brown eyes asked them curiously, in between songs, what they were doing. “Toe jam,” they told her. She smiled and said, “Cool,” but she didn’t really think so.
