Towels

The clock gazes past me, indifferent to my impatient glances. We’d been in our swimsuits an hour already, Mama’s snack money envelope tucked into my folded towel. In two hours, I would walk us down the block to our neighbor’s. My little sister, unbothered by the stretch of time, watches cartoons. Her small fruity sandals barely reaching the sofa's edge. Two. Hours. Anticipation making me dizzy. The clock is nonchalant. Thirty minutes later, the neighbor hands me a telephone receiver filled with Mama's exasperated voice, marching us back home. Something about following instructions. We slump up the block with our towels. From our wall, the clock mocks me.