ISSUE 6

Michelle Matthees

 

Gauges

It’s only women with white hair, just like at church. That, and one sullen teen vaping in a white puffer jacket. On the Uffizi terrace bells chime, and birds chirp at my mortadella sandwich with arugula. 

 

Two countries over, a war’s ongoing, and I read about it on my phone. I watch a young man in Cyrillic fatigues with a level of commitment that’s hard to gauge. Мой, мой, мой yells the big man behind him with a red face, spinning like a pie case mistakenly filled with meat. 

 

Is it wrong to go on not making history before a cooling espresso? Is it wrong to seek happiness? The green tank driver stares straight ahead, hits a bump. You can hardly tell. I think about stealing a spoon. I think about starting something.

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