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by Renuka Raghavan

Maybe he’ll have a name like Jax or Finn. Damon or Reid. Beckett or Axel.

Maybe he’ll look just as good wearing a leather jacket as he would in a business suit. He’ll have book smarts and street smarts, be devastatingly handsome and make all bad-boys wish they could be him.

Maybe he’ll have dark curly or wavy hair. Not too short, not too long, just the exact length that I can grab on to or sift my fingers through when he holds me tight as we slow dance to Etta James or Eric Clapton.

Maybe he’ll have a hot car. A shiny red roadster we’d take for a joyride in the middle of a summer day with the top down.

Maybe he’ll be a couple of years younger than me. Oh, what the hell, a good ten years younger than me.

Maybe, just for kicks, he’ll be the type who bakes a cheesecake for me. Not because it was my birthday or anniversary, but just because it was a Wednesday.

Maybe, when we make love for the first time, he’ll ignore my missing body parts. He’ll caress me and touch me just for pleasure, not for pity. And when he reaches the dual flower tattoos inked on my flattened chest, he’ll ignore the scars behind them and trace each petal with ardent hunger, not wanting to break our contact.

Maybe he’ll understand and be gentle when I begin to cry.

Maybe. Just maybe.


Renuka Raghavan’s previous work has appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Star 82 Review, Down in the Dirt Literary Magazine, and Chicago Literati, among others. She is the author of Out of the Blue (Big Table Publishing, 2017) a collection of poetry and prose. She writes and lives in Massachusetts. Connect with her on Facebook or visit her at www.renukaraghavan.com.

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