It doesn't say my name, but the parking spot is mine. I hear stupid stories from boys who are bad whisperers. I wait at the red light to feel a flaw in my orange and yellow slinky. I see a whole flower in the hallway from a lost lover. Throughout the rest of my day I notice a tattoo that draws me in. I notice a lot of glances from a crush, in a small amount of time. The parking space doesn't say my name on it. So maybe the parking spot isn't mine.