FLASH
Kate Winslet always reminded me of my mom. Maybe that’s why, even to this day, I get defensive of Rose from Titanic when people call her stupid or shallow…
Sitting at the bar on Pacific Avenue. With the seashells in the walls. Same bartender from last year, still here, making the same lethal Mai Tais.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
Allanson looked out of the viewport, at the ragtag flotilla of ships trailing behind, some of them slow to catch up. It was to be expected with the little time that they’d had to cobble the fleet together.
None speak of how the streets collide in coarse seams like scars, the fresh cobbles unable to level with the ones shaken from their mortar by uncountable seasons.
Another image rises to us both: A man hunched before a TV, watching historical documentaries, correcting incorrect facts. Rasputin was not a priest, damn it.
The weeks go like this: accepting, horny, hopeful, sad. I’m four different people trying to establish one perspective on a major life event – on the creation of life itself.
At twenty, the world is yours because you’re beautiful. But never acknowledge your beauty, or it makes you a bitch.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”