You don’t go to the party because you want to flower alone at night, and the color of your face is a shade off from young, and the trunk of your car is so easy to break into that you don’t want to park anywhere.
You head back to your springy apartment missing the frustrating charm of night bugs, and because people would watch you enter the party naked in your clothing because this happened again, you wanted a man’s body too much.
You refuse to buy bananas, they are retarded and bruise easily.
And you would not like the exit. You would not like to say “Bye, I’m leavin’ a bit early here, so damn tired!” and nobody looking terribly sad. AND you go home early because his laugh makes you feel him in your cheap shower, soapy and relaxed… just what you would do with that if he were there too, but you can’t.
You go home early because he won’t do anything with what is staring him in the face. I mean, there is something not at all useful about it being there at the party.
Meg Pokrass is the author of Damn Sure Right (Press 53), a collection of flash fiction. Her stories have appeared in numerous publications, including the Literarian Center for Fiction, StorySouth, Failbetter and McSweeny’s. She has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations, and her stories have been nominated for Best of the Web, Best of the Net, and Wigleaf’s Top 50 [Very] Short Fictions. She serves as an associated editor for Frederick Barthelme’s New World Writing.
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