Squeeze.

she always returns to the same square. on the top of the building, not a fancy building, not the tallest building, but a tall-enough building, where she can see all the towers above her, a few churches below her, and the cars .. she captures one between her thumb and pointer and squeezes it like the pocks she wasn't supposed to squeeze on her face when she was a few years younger, there are still a few now and there is still that temptation to just squeeze them and just let it all come out, all the wonderful warmth on the inside. she does it to some of the people she doesn't like, too. but no warmth comes from them. that girl with the long blond hair and the big sunglasses that make her look like an overly primped dog or an ugly martian, where did she get those and who told her they looked good, who told her she looked good why do i think she looks good and why didn't i get that hair. hers doesn't grow, or not fast enough, and in waiting for it to get there she hacks it off, and smiles to herself as the florets hit the ground like fat brown rain. then she goes home and runs her hands through it, all two inches of it, and prays on stars that it will come back faster this time. stars, yes. god never did much for her.