the way she spits, by sophie isbister. The thing she likes most in the world is to dance. She's not the best at dancing, nor the person you'd most like to see in motion, but she does it anyway. When she walks down the street, she balances on the curb like a tighrope walker, occassionally dipping her toe in the gutter for an elaborate move. She imagines that her brain is made of shining planets. She likes the way the car rocks back and forth while driving down bumpy country roads, timed perfect to the music if you play the right song. She likes it when she is alone, with her dusty fairy thoughts. Fragile thoughts. Sometimes contemplates the meaning of starlight. She likes the pool, her blubber body encased in swimsuit, relishing the chlorine sting in her eyes. She loves the way the water makes her weightless. She's not the prettiest girl at school, she's not even passable. Her bumbling form drifting down the hallway, hugging the walls. She rocks back and forth. She slides words off her tongue. Vulgar. Trite. Malevolent. Ennui. She likes the way they taste, their texture, their depth. She doesn't know what they mean. Her vocabulary is cat. Dog. Angry. No. Mother. But she listens, crouched where nobody cares. She could walk on rays of sunshine if you would let her. She likes the way she spits.