We sit around the commons assigning nicknames to the passersby.
Bubbles she says, and laughs.
I point out a Cornfed and a T-Bone.
Chocobunny.
What the hell does that mean?
A girl walks by wearing a t-shirt that reads chocobunny.
The Man.
Stan or Dan?
Fran.
As in Francis or Frances?
As in Butch.
She pulls out a hairbrush at that moment, bristles.
Those who work with combed flax will despair,
The weavers of fine linen will lose hope.
That I would cover her in voile from head to toe to keep her.
Charlie.
That’s not a proper nickname.
You are my Charlie.
Who was he? I ask.
A boy who used to brush my hair.