You’re on a first date with Ali Mills
in your ma’s Picholine olive station wagon.
You’re all passengers in the front seat because
it’s 1984– no middle console. The Family
Fun Center offers Arcade – Games – Prizes,
even a water slide you didn’t realize you needed
bathing suits to enjoy. Baxter Robertson’s
“Feel The Night” begins to sing. You’re competing
at table hockey before the plastic bubble top was
introduced. You’re occasionally winning, sometimes
losing, for once allowing yourself to give a puck
and give up a goal. You need assistance
with the Putt-Putt putter. You’re wearing white
socks, imitation Nikes, a smart smalt blue
jacket, burnt chestnut pants. You’re backseat
in a buttery hovercraft that could move forwards
or backwards but for the time being oscillates giddy.
Next, you’re in command of the #26 racecar, then
testing out trampoline weight capacity. You both
fall together. You’re not made for each other,
but who cares? You’re instantly in a photo booth.
You’re adorable. You dislike your face in most shots
but Ali approves. You should share a pop though
decide to buy two. Everybody’s holding each other
in primary colors. Ali briefly chats with a community
college senior in a convertible. Ali’s ex-boyfriend
who has a history of assaulting both of you
pulls up after. One of his martial arts allies insults
your ma’s vehicle. It’s as if everyone in the parking lot
also attracted to Ali Mills knows when your date is over.
You’re on a first date with Ali Mills
in your ma’s Picholine olive station wagon.
You’re all passengers in the front seat because
it’s 1984– no middle console. The Family
Fun Center offers Arcade – Games – Prizes,
even a water slide you didn’t realize you needed
bathing suits to enjoy. Baxter Robertson’s
“Feel The Night” begins to sing. You’re competing
at table hockey before the plastic bubble top was
introduced. You’re occasionally winning, sometimes
losing, for once allowing yourself to give a puck
and give up a goal. You need assistance
with the Putt-Putt putter. You’re wearing white
socks, imitation Nikes, a smart smalt blue
jacket, burnt chestnut pants. You’re backseat
in a buttery hovercraft that could move forwards
or backwards but for the time being oscillates giddy.
Next, you’re in command of the #26 racecar, then
testing out trampoline weight capacity. You both
fall together. You’re not made for each other,
but who cares? You’re instantly in a photo booth.
You’re adorable. You dislike your face in most shots
but Ali approves. You should share a pop though
decide to buy two. Everybody’s holding each other
in primary colors. Ali briefly chats with a community
college senior in a convertible. Ali’s ex-boyfriend
who has a history of assaulting both of you
pulls up after. One of his martial arts allies insults
your ma’s vehicle. It’s as if everyone in the parking lot
also attracted to Ali Mills knows when your date is over.