Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she finally answers seriously. “I find that hard to believe—” “And I’m not looking for one, either,” she cuts Dane off. “I had one once, and you have to bathe them and feed them and walk them . . .”

What they savor ’ventually loses its flavor.

Making sure the girl who got out a few minutes ago is tucked back inside, down deep.

Eventually we all have to weigh what we want more: wanting back what we had or wanting what could be. To stay or to risk everything to move forward.

It’s funny how people smell like their houses. Or vice versa. Combinations of leather and wood furniture, Febreze, laundry soap, the different colognes and perfumes your parents and siblings use, the food your family cooks . . . all coming together to create a single, solitary scent in your house.

No one does you better than you. You can’t be replaced. Not everyone will see that, but only you need to.”