By Elizabeth O'Brien
It all glittered. Her hair, her movements, the edges of her arms and top of her head. He watched her seem to float above the ground, the dress swirling movie-like, and thought, glitter is just plastic cut extra small, static charged. From his fast food booth, also plastic in unctuous pink and orange, he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He could only watch her like some rerun out there, her laughing and flitting beneath the streetlights out the window, and he’d seen it before, hadn’t he seen this before?
Also, the pizza was terrible.