Rita Tiwari
Rita Tiwari is a lifelong Oregonian who currently splits her time between Portland and the coast. She holds an MA in Writing from Portland State University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific University. Her work is published or forthcoming in Novus Literary Arts Journal, Permafrost Magazine, and I-70 Review.
Seventeen
The store smelled like cheese—shredded mozzarella—
like green bell peppers, like sacks of flour.
Its scent lingered on my hair and clothes
so that when I left work jeans in the backseat
of my 1989 Ford Tempo, friends would say,
Did you bring home a pizza? The manager
had been a junior when I was a freshman—
was something like, but not quite like, a friend.
When he said, I have to thank you. I’ve had writer’s block
for weeks, but when I saw you in that brown dress
at the video store, it got me going again, it was spoken
the same way we said everything at that age:
while looking away. Just spreading sauce on dough
or chopping tomatoes. The kind of confession
teenagers make to their fellows. Still,
under my polyester polo, a sensation—
animate as a hand—climbed my spine.
