Nothing ever has to do with anything. Everything is an ever after. Every after sucks, and he’s well acquainted with murderers of enchantment. His thoughts of them are stirred into a cup of coffee. The linoleum floors peel. The night is afire. There’s a tear in the lampshade from who knows what. He waits for the day to crack. He waits for the phone to ring.
The neighborhood parties creak of her. The windows are dirty with her prints. Tomorrow is something else, but the dumb kid is choking for her perfume tonight. Summer is coming, and reflects his heat for her. The costumes are all hung in his closet. There’s a grenade in his chest, a knife in his pants. A pointed longing for a good story. A soft makeup kit for his friendship.
The phone rings.
He says, “Y’know, it’s not my fault, and it definitely ain’t my shit. It’s my embarrassing lack of discretion. It’s my dumbfound. It’s the fact my projector is in full working order, and damn baby, you make a fine screen.”
This town will take you out, kid. And it’s only a matter of time now before calluses find you. Buckle up.
