Purple

I swirled my fingers in the paint.
"Do you still?"
she asks. I nod, but I'm unsure.
With purple, she starts first.

We painted ourselves
in warlike ways and prepared to do battle
with the boys from across the street.
I feared losing.

Her weapon of choice was
her dad's broken tennis racket,
the one with no strings. I fought
with a jump rope.

When we lost
--"Better luck next time, losers!"
they jeered--
she never once said it was my fault.