The Slow-Cooked Sentence


Rachael Conlin Levy
Hair gel courtesy of Darwin Bell.

He was late for school.

But he wasn’t hurrying.

Mohawks can’t be hurried.

Each strand of the boy’s hair stood perfectly upright, creating a razor’s edge. He looked to be about nine years old, and I had to wonder, was someone helping this little rooster with his comb or had he mastered the art of gel at a young age?

As he neared, I stopped studying him and glanced away. He was wearing one sneaker.

Just one.

On his other foot was a white tube sock. He carried nothing in his hands, no backpack slung over his shoulders. I wanted to ask, but what was there to say? Excuse me, you’re missing a shoe. Sometimes my husband accuses me of stating the obvious as if it were profound, so I remained silent as I passed the boy.

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