Teresa

WWJRD

On a visit, Jesus sees bracelets with WWJD. What does that mean? he asks. What Would Jesus Do? they respond. I wouldn’t wear that, he says.

How can you judge what we wear? they ask. Jesus ponders something Biblical to say. He remains silent, knowing they won’t get it.

Cat got your tongue? they ask. Don’t you recognize me? Jesus finally says. They look at him. Were you in my frat? one asks.

Why you just standing there? the burly guy asks. Jesus shakes his head, cheeks turning repeatedly. Laughing, the group slaps high fives.

You really don’t recognize me? Jesus says. Get outta here poser, they yell.
Would Jesus really say that? he asks.

The guys close in on Jesus, but he quietly picks up a WWJD bracelet. Give me my bracelet, one demands. Over my dead body, Jesus replies.

Jesus turns the bracelet to stone. You’ll pay for that, one says. No you will, Jesus says as he parts the stunned crowd and walks away.

Shoe polish stink pervades the lobby while lungs audibly pump with every belabored brush. Shoe Shine Man & Son serve callous brokers daily.

I am magic, she whispers. An incantation. She worries the words between her teeth.

She totters on the highest of heels, clear Lucite. She is careful, arms high at her sides. She could stop the world.

I am magic, she whispers. An invocation. She worries the words between the soft tips of her fingers.

She is on a stage, slick, black. Each step, a hard echo. The music wraps around her, binds her to this place.

I am a dark magic, she shouts. An exultation. She worries the words between the humid meat of her thighs.

He prints whatever he wants because it sells newspapers. He makes whatever apologies people deem necessary and carries on as before.

He is 30 now, and yearns to reset the clock. Not because he thinks he could do any better, but rather because he forgot to pay attention.