Threshold
Lauren Yates

At the Goodwill between the In-N-Out Burger and
the DMV, I found a pair of knock-off Doc Martens.
Daisy-covered Mary Janes I dreamt of wearing with
seamed stockings. When my mother offered to buy
them for me, she pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.
“We don’t have change for that,” said the woman,
two years clean, her hair dripping onto her apron.
“You know the holidays when you only have large
bills,” Mom began. The woman scrunched her face.

At the storage unit next door to the homeless shelter,
he calls me rich girl. Helps me with my bags,
tells me I talk white. He says he’s only been homeless
for a week. That he lost his apartment when he lost
his job, so his girlfriend left. I don’t tell him that
I’m homeless, too. I let him carry my things and
offer to buy him dinner. He orders me an avocado
smoothie that I end up paying for. He slurps
his noodles with such ferocity, the sauce splatters
onto my face. When our bill sits just short of the
credit card minimum, I buy him a soda. He says the
bubbles fill him up and he doesn’t get as hungry.

I give him my number out of pity. When he texts me
the next day to say he’s thinking of me, I don’t respond.