She asks for salt. Soon the chef is at the table bellowing about art. She sips her wine. It’s all going to come out my butt later, she says.
Twisters
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I saw her again and she looked different. I felt alone. Unsure of things. Then she took a bite of her burger. And my warm feelings returned.
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I was having some difficulty catching my breath. But I saw her and my labor seemed trivial. I took her hand. Don’t you ever wash? she asked.
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And then we noticed the coming of the dawn and she said, Oh wow, and I moved in to kiss her, and she said, I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.
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Who does such a thing? she asks as I eat the last piece of cake. I try and swallow. But I’ve taken too much. I start to choke. Who? she asks.
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The breeze messes her hair and for a moment she is the most exquisite thing in the world but then her extensions blow off and she runs away.
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We stare at the salami, its fat glistening in the day’s last light like shards of crystal. You take it, I tell her, stepping out of my pants.
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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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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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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.
