What about last night, he says.
Silence and bodies is everything she knows, so how do expect her to say the word?
She pulls over to a screeching halt, turns off the AC cause this is the only time she’ll be able to break a sweat cause she likes to lay around with nothing on and the men’s eyes are always on her cause of that off-kilter look in her eyes.
She doesn’t believe in the lottery, not even fucking BINGO.
She says what she wants, gets cuffed.
Her papa wrote a book about the civil war, he was so proud, and even though she never told him, the pistachio ice cream they both liked was the only thing they had in common. He never played bingo but always got lost in someone else’s room, probably day-dreaming about all the hot young volunteers calling out 03.
What does a word mean? Can she still be good and put her buck teeth to her bottom lip?
The thyme creeps, and it knows how to live slow, listening, but she couldn’t tell you how to do that. There’s always humming, even when the lights go out. Maybe she’ll sleep without the heater blasting. Maybe she’ll strip off her sheet, expose herself bare. She wouldn’t dare, though, cause her mama told her that boys only like two things and she’s one of them.
Be still says the Holy Ghost, but she’s not sure where to sit on the scale—that balancing act of life. Listen my child.
Actually, she’s always listening. Watch out for the camoflauged scorpions. The stream is shallow, and they can’t contain themselves because crawfish will be crawfish. Your sympathy is unwanted.