She fills up the glass right up to the first blue fish who grins at me from the side of the cup, its plastic eye worn away from years of gripping and gulping.
“Drink”.
I swallow slowly, keep the liquid in my mouth for a few seconds despite being rudely assaulted by the taste. It was bitter and I tried to fight the consequential pursing contortions it forced onto my face. We drink. I glance over at the clock stationed on top of the small kitchen TV. 9:37am. I stand to get my torn sweatshirt that i’ve kept as some shitty memorial from the boy who lives down the street who told me i was pretty. when I stand, it’s spiritual.

october 2001

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