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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

You are all unique, like snowflakes, the teacher tells her students. She goes home and opens a beer and eats some nachos. Like me, she sighs.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

You can’t suck this in a manly way, he says as he unwraps a Popsicle. He’s talking to everyone and no one. To himself. And, always, his mom.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

He knows, right now, if he makes a move for her that he’s the worst person in the world. No, worse than the worst. He knows this. And moves.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

I packed my bags as she slept. She woke and caught me tiptoeing out of the bedroom. You’re a fat liar, she mumbled, figuring me out finally.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

I show her my guitar. I feel nervous. But, she’s not into my instrument. She wants to talk. About us. Did you even look at my guitar? I ask.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

A car ran over my foot. Did you see that? I asked, disappointed that I wasn’t hurt. It was an old Camaro, she sighed. Then she ran after it.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

The waiter brought the bill. The restaurant was empty. We’re stardust, I sighed and downed my cognac. Did you forget your wallet? she asked.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

He picks up his stuff. I have to get to practice, he tells her. She laughs derisively. He leaves. She lights a smoke. Practice, she mumbles.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

I finally clicked on the link. And it started raining and the streets flooded. This is all my fault, I said. But I’d never seen spam before.

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By Arjun Basu | Published: June 1, 2013

He says, I’m a Size 10. She smiles and bends over and finds the size. He says, You have a nice bum. She frowns. She says, I’m holding shoes.

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