My brain tracks the bead of sweat as it travels from the nape of my neck, down my spine, and finds a home in the lower region of my thin cotton tank. The dampness of my tank is almost indistinguishable from the veritable pool I’ve accumulated by the waist of my skirt. I press my… Continue reading Hot Mess Express.
Tag: fiction
A Hairy Situation.
I stare at the piece of hair. I’ve seen so many pieces of my hair detached from my head over the years. Curly, dyed strands wrapped around stubborn hair elastics and plastic nubbed brush bristles. But now, I gaze at the long, dark wet strand plastered to my tiled shower wall. It feels complete in… Continue reading A Hairy Situation.
The Ick.
I paused before writing this piece. I hesitated for a variety of reasons. It wasn’t some feeling of embarrassment connected to the admission that I watch reality television. It’s not a staple for me, but I certainly haven’t shied away from it, either. Why? Oh, well, likely for the same reasons everyone else watches it.… Continue reading The Ick.
Franz.
There’s a moment where I’m staring at the Zoom icon and then suddenly, his face fills the screen. I take him in in bits and pieces. Round tortoiseshell plastic framed glasses, broad forehead, full lips formed into a semi-frown and sweat dotting his hair line. I instantly wonder if he’s just come from some activity… Continue reading Franz.
Tilda.
I’m studying her profile in a way that would be obvious if she weren’t driving. Maybe it’s obvious anyway, but she’s not the kind to acknowledge, not in that way. Her skin is still perfect. I don’t think they use the expression peaches and cream anymore, but if they did, if I did, this would… Continue reading Tilda.
Sorry, Sarah.
I pause and kick the broken asphalt just in front of the filthy right toe of my Asics. I need to change to a new pair, but I’m resistant because it’s still such shitty weather. Almost there, I think. Fucking asshole, I say into the foggy early morning air. What is bubbling inside of me… Continue reading Sorry, Sarah.
I like her teaching, too.
Melissa pats her caramel highlighted curls which perfectly fan out around her chartreuse fleece ear warmer. It’s unquestionably more expensive than the shitty Amazon purchased one I jammed on my head this morning. She is clearly uncomfortable. It wasn’t intentional on my part- to make her uneasy, but that’s also a part of me so… Continue reading I like her teaching, too.
Happy Galantine’s Day, Devi.
I’ve named her Devi because she closely resembles a woman I knew in college. Her hair is jet black and the kind of wavy I admire-frizz free and giving off curling iron feels. I know she didn’t though, use a hair tool. It’s just her hair. I know that in the subconscious way she keeps… Continue reading Happy Galantine’s Day, Devi.
The Antidote to Hate.
She is ambling down the sidewalk-her baby legs reminding me of one of those dogs that can either be walked or placed comfortably in a purse. Her leggings are cranberry colored, and the puffer jacket that makes her diminutive frame look only slightly bigger than a minute, is something akin to fuchsia, but it works.… Continue reading The Antidote to Hate.
Freeballing into the afterlife.
I wrap my hand around the glass, the beading condensation cool under my finger pads. Some of the Tajin rim is now coating the top of my pointer finger. I bring it to my mouth before I think better of it and then, realize my mistake and swipe it on the cloth napkin resting on… Continue reading Freeballing into the afterlife.
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