the Aggressive Chiicken

Photo by Antonio Sokic on Pexels We were children of the 1970s, children of divorce and children of an age, not of innocence, but of bravado. While we recognised dangers, we felt impervious to them. Lisa lived in the same apartment complex as Leslie and me. She lived with her divorced mom; we lived with our divorced dad. Inevitably, we became friends of similar circumstances and spent all of our free time together and unsupervised as we engaged in mildly delinquent behaviour.

Photo by Uillian Vargas on Unsplash We were young girls. The older men called us ‘kittens’. We checked our compact mirrors hourly. Wearing skin-tight jeans, tiny tops, and frosty pink lip-gloss, we were soft-skinned, wide-eyed and thrill-seeking. Foreigner’s ‘Hot Blooded’ blasted from eight-track tapes as the men in cars circled. Teri and I walked, with an air of cool disinterest, weaving between the cars as the drivers offered us their weed, alcohol, and mature company from