Fiction 2014 / Volume 44

Blue — Kirsten Nelson

If I had a mohawk, it would be blue.

It wouldn’t be one of those plain mohawks like you could give a toddler who wants to be different on the preschool playground. Mine would be ten separate mohawks creating liberty spikes that sing “let freedom do whatever the fuck it wants.” My hair would be bluer than the color of the eyes I didn’t inherit from my great-grandfather. I would make my friends laugh and my parents groan and strangers on the sidewalk stare at my spikes because I’ll take all the attention I can get.

And as I put the cream and sugar in my second cup of coffee for the morning, I would watch you across the Reclaimed Urban Wood table as you smile at me because it wouldn’t matter if I had a mohawk.

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