The Comment

The summer extended before her like a boyfriend who owed her seven hundred dollars: an entity unwanted but one that must be faced. Would she escape? Or would she be doomed to spend her days serving once frozen tilapia to AARP clients and her nights rotting in shopping plaza bars among boys she didn’t remember from high school who proudly declared their unwavering attendance at such places? And where would she go if she did manage to escape? And, there, once again, was the question which had tortured her so acutely two years earlier: “What are you doing with your life?” read the MySpace comment, cruelly judging her in common Helvetica.