Tuesday, February 24, 2009


Right before I hung up the
phone, I remember
that there was a clap of
thunder. The kind
that makes you say,
Holy fuck!
Still, I was pissed.
This little broad wasn't
gonna play me anymore.
As it was, the only thing that
bound us at this point
was this dumb trip we planned
to Disney, compliments of
my tax check.

We were both looking
forward to it and Christ,
I'd say we needed it.
Right before I slammed the phone
down I told her we were through.
Kaput. And 'Fuck that trip,' I said.
'I'll be goddamned if I was gonna
bring some ungrateful bitch
with me on my only vacation for the year.'

When she called back, I wouldn't
answer. Not even the other phone.
I meant it this time.
This time.
Then the doorbell rang. It was
her. Sopping wet. The poor thing
ran to my house from the
next town over and didn't
have a car. Standing on my
stoop, panting with drenched
sweatpants and a ripped T-shirt,
she pleaded not to cancel the trip.

Our trip.

As I write this, some weeks later,
I'm watching her sleep. Half-drunk,
half stupid, I'm scribbling these
way-too-incriminating thoughts
on the back of a faded postcard.
And as the moonlight creeps in
through the curtains of our cheap
HoJo motel room, all I can
think is that Mickey awaits.

I hope that fucker's happy...

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