I’D TURNED VODKA INTO AIR
and had been breathing all day. Sandra kept the pace. The bartender was Raggedy Ann, if Raggedy Ann gained 200 pounds and had a laugh exactly like a car alarm. Sandra and I nibbled spinach. Eventually I waved away the Bloody Mary mix, but ordered extra olives. Raggedy Ann could’ve sworn me off vaccines and replaced them with booze. “I love you,” my eyes beamed, and the bar top beneath the bottom of my glass festered with rings from other emptied glasses. “No you don’t,” Sandra said. Her hand waved like a flag: nails red, sleeves blue. “Don’t say that.” Her eyes slit in the afternoon light. When we slithered out, the sedans and SUVs honked past us. One woman, with curls exactly like snakes constricting her noggin, made a face I’m sure she makes when she smells her husband’s farts. I waved.
AFTER I’D BEEN DUMPED—
the bar top snowed in with cigarette ash turning to slush in Jameson—some cokeheads took me home. The woman’s tits were bowling balls in terms of their fakeness and hardness. The guy’s HIV—so they told me—made me snort with my own bill. My legs jumped and my stomach filled with lizards’ feet. I’d need six more whiskeys before my lids could seal shut that night. But first, I’d get a ride back to the bar in a Honda littered with pecan shells and fast food wrappers. Inside, nothing had changed: cigarette smoke swirled, and everyone inside floated, waiting for something to happen.
A GLASS OF CHIANTI
Sarah’s Toyota met me at the street and inside Sarah could’ve been bespectacled and a Republican, but was merely bespectacled. We went for bell pepper and breadcrumbs. Our plates remained layered with meatballs and marinara. Although the conversation ran as ticker tape from the machines of our mouths, our stomachs had wadded themselves into chewing gum. The cat jumped between her and me, right when I leaned in. The rain pattered like paws on the windowsill, and we missed the Cardinals and Mets, but later learned the rain had rained them out. When it thundered the light went dim, then bright again. After Sarah went home I felt a slight tug—the Highlander down the street—but I stayed rolled in my covers, awake as if I’d run my veins full of stuff that’s meant to keep you that way, only I’d barely finished a glass of Chianti. It still graced the table, staining the cloth with myriad rings, light purple, and darker and darker.
and had been breathing all day. Sandra kept the pace. The bartender was Raggedy Ann, if Raggedy Ann gained 200 pounds and had a laugh exactly like a car alarm. Sandra and I nibbled spinach. Eventually I waved away the Bloody Mary mix, but ordered extra olives. Raggedy Ann could’ve sworn me off vaccines and replaced them with booze. “I love you,” my eyes beamed, and the bar top beneath the bottom of my glass festered with rings from other emptied glasses. “No you don’t,” Sandra said. Her hand waved like a flag: nails red, sleeves blue. “Don’t say that.” Her eyes slit in the afternoon light. When we slithered out, the sedans and SUVs honked past us. One woman, with curls exactly like snakes constricting her noggin, made a face I’m sure she makes when she smells her husband’s farts. I waved.
AFTER I’D BEEN DUMPED—
the bar top snowed in with cigarette ash turning to slush in Jameson—some cokeheads took me home. The woman’s tits were bowling balls in terms of their fakeness and hardness. The guy’s HIV—so they told me—made me snort with my own bill. My legs jumped and my stomach filled with lizards’ feet. I’d need six more whiskeys before my lids could seal shut that night. But first, I’d get a ride back to the bar in a Honda littered with pecan shells and fast food wrappers. Inside, nothing had changed: cigarette smoke swirled, and everyone inside floated, waiting for something to happen.
A GLASS OF CHIANTI
Sarah’s Toyota met me at the street and inside Sarah could’ve been bespectacled and a Republican, but was merely bespectacled. We went for bell pepper and breadcrumbs. Our plates remained layered with meatballs and marinara. Although the conversation ran as ticker tape from the machines of our mouths, our stomachs had wadded themselves into chewing gum. The cat jumped between her and me, right when I leaned in. The rain pattered like paws on the windowsill, and we missed the Cardinals and Mets, but later learned the rain had rained them out. When it thundered the light went dim, then bright again. After Sarah went home I felt a slight tug—the Highlander down the street—but I stayed rolled in my covers, awake as if I’d run my veins full of stuff that’s meant to keep you that way, only I’d barely finished a glass of Chianti. It still graced the table, staining the cloth with myriad rings, light purple, and darker and darker.
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