The Sugar Babies by O.M. Faye5/13/2023 ![]() ![]() I had Bonnebell watermelon lip gloss, that I wore on a string around my neck, sneakers, and short socks with pompoms at the back. It was Spring, but it was cold, so I had on a long sleeved shirt under the t-shirt. I had ironed my initials onto the front of the t-shirt. ![]() Blue jeans that flared out at the bottom, and a baby blue t-shirt with short sleeves that flared out the same way my pants did. He was probably weird and lonely and hated his mother but had no where else to live, because he couldn’t see well enough to get a job. ![]() Or maybe he couldn’t see without his glasses, but was driving around anyway. The next time I was on the corner across the street from the Burger King waiting for the bus to go to school, with my American History book the size of the Yellow Pages and “As I Lay Dying” and my bagged lunch, I decided if a car slowed down and a man leaned across the seat to get a better look at me, I would look him in the eye. If a car slows down when you’re walking, don’t look at it.” “How am I going to be a prostitute? I don’t even have a pocketbook.” “He stopped to see if you are a prostitute.” My sister hated me for being taller, but back then she stuck with me. “He wants you to get in the car,” she said. When I was fourteen and so stupid, I said to my older sister, “Do you know, when I was waiting for the E bus, a man slowed his car down and stopped.” ![]()
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