The sunlight joked hotly,“You forgot what I looked like, didn’t you?”
And didn’t you, after days of clouds; I think it looks aggressive. Hot and mean and darting through glass, just past my leg, nearly singeing me on it’s way. Then it just sits there on the rug, rigidly, doing what? Waiting until we all look away so it can make its move and crawl up my skirt?
Through tiny ladylike mouthfuls of fingernails, I say hello fine sir or madam to everyone, to the sun, to the patrons, as if selling something useless, like broccoli or hats. They notice my legs and not my cuticles.
The strips of light are catlike: briefly entertaining, briefly wanting, like felines or anything else.