Sue Miller
The edges are melting and it's nothing to do with the sun. That lady with the camera, smiling, won't she be surprised once she gets home and has a look at what she's taken today. She won't believe it. Because when you're in it, you just can't see it, feel it. But I do. I have been here before. Protest is nothing new to me. My hat keeps my head safe, keeps my thinking straight, but I won't touch metal—not for at least three hours—not until the effects of the peace wave wears off. That's what they call it, the Peace Wave. They spray it from the street lights, mist it from the parking meters. Maybe the guy on stilts has half a chance at sanity, at remembering. His sunny little umbrella protects him more than most, but I don't know, it's in the atmosphere. Make love not war—ha! That's exactly what they want you to do, to run home and forget why you were here, indulge yourself in the pleasures of the flesh, well, I get it. And I got me a lady waiting at home and spray or no, I'm boning her.
I'm just warning you, is all. They know. Of course they know.