The pretty girl behind the counter is smiling
as I hand over the items-- a T-shirt,
a pair of shoes. She is joking with me
as all good cashiers do.
\'I\'ve always loved Indian movies\', she says.
I resist rolling my eyes and nod anyway.
\'Pakistan\', I correct her without meaning to
and she looks away.
She folds the shirt, slides it in the paper
bag and hands it over.
She nods, dismissing me but
I step behind the counter, becoming
a girl with blonde hair, blue eyes
a tight cap trapping my curls.
I imagine what she thinks,
her imagination taking off, flying,
soaring in the sky.
Myself a looming presence,
great and tall
standing in her way.
A tower
in which her imagination will
crash,
crippling us
both.