On The Roof

It was somewhat of a movie moment, when we all, the four of us, emerged into the juicy sunlight. Instinctively our hands flew to our brows and we laughed. Everything around us was radiant green or milky gray, the color of my eyes in that second before I burst into tears. But the lines... the lines were so sharp. The stiff sides of a building someone's grandfather was underpaid to build loomed on the right. To the left, an artificial hedge so that we wouldn't see the drooping awnings below. Any sign of weakness was eliminated, intimidating the tourists, rejuvenating the patriot, and wildly confusing me. "Take a picture," I giggled, holding out my camera to them. The burning, scorching, invasive sunlight pushed my borders until ironic tears burst upwards like geysers and I shut them out tight. I couldn't stop smiling. Downstairs, examining the pictures, I discovered the most peculiar thing: In every wrong picture, I fit right in with the world around me: the world over the edge, not the superficial garden, like a popular clique making your imperfections stick out and hiding their own with concealer or mascara or picturesque buildings in the exact place a real person can't open their eyes.