Fin.

‘Your hair looks fabulous,’ she said coolly to her rival at the Flea market. ‘For once.’ Eyes rolled behind vintage specs.

I last saw her pulling up in her minivan, leopard print jacket, menthol cigarette and a mini skirt at sixty. Rest in peace.

Crammed into the too small elevator, she remarked, ‘God, we’re being Abramovic’d. Won’t someone strip naked and stare already?’

Reliving the con of confidence knitted when we were we by looping YouTube videos of cheers, applause and standing ovations.

Lived in home with lots of clutter, scented of springtime tobacco rolled. Maybe an ant crawls here to there shocked by sleepless whispering.

Maybe since my DS is pink, or because I name my Pokemon after blaxploitation stars, but after one good look, he stood the rest of the ride.

She figures out which men are single by asking if their seat across is taken, but the men figure her out without trying.

Today’s craving started when he apologized for blowing smoke in my falafel.

The awkwardness of dangling rice on otherwise perfectly painted lips was my ride home entertainment.

The dilf enjoyed describing the joys of swimming with babies while his unsupervised son crawled his way to the deep end.

‘You can keep that nose of yours up high,’ she said, ‘but when I’m on my heels all you smell is tits.’

She yelled louder than the train, harmonizing with the brakes. She skipped her stop to try it again.

The cashier flirts by casually forgetting to ring up items, to which I responded, ‘Boy are you incompetent.’

One big ball of toilet air, fanned with gusto by disgruntlement. A final project gone awry.