Sunday, January 25, 2009


Twelve times. She'd done it twelve times that summer. So far.

He wandered behind the pool table and squatted, then rested his moist sockets in his palms. The concrete floor of the basement made his ass cold but he felt assured no one would find him unless they stumbled back there to puke or fuck around or actually play billiards. With his eyelids tightly closed, he moved his hands to the sides of his head and pressed his palms to his ears as if to stop a flow of steam from escaping.

Earlier, after he open-hand slapped at the window of her friend's car in a fit of terrible exasperation, she assured him from inside a plume of smoke that it wasn't a big deal. Fuck, he thought, it was a big deal. "I've only smoked pot twelve times in my entire life," he told her. He meant just the last two years.

Disaster marred every instance of his use. His last time stoned, two months ago, was the worst. On an otherwise sleepy residential street, he had been the cause of a car accident, a feat astonishing to everyone as he was driving about 12mph. Still, he insisted, it wasn't about him or her: an article on a marijuana-related death appeared in the paper that morning. It was a sign, a glaring signal to stop and stop her.


1 comment:

RADAR said...

This is really funny stuff Forest!