No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Zillah raises the glass to her lips and tips the gin into her mouth. It hits her tongue with a dry coolness—she has long since become desensitized to the sting—and its arid, herbal vapors tickle the inside of her nose. No tinkle in her glass, no ice cubes to fence out with her lips. As always, she drinks it neat.
We only ever called him Bignami, and what a name it was. You’d hear it ringing out over the quad like the chatter of myna birds: Big – naaa – me!
The difference between my life in Tennessee and my life in the big city amounted to hammocks.
I said this slowly because he looked drunk— likely dim prior to drunk— nonetheless a certain shade of peculiar which seemed attractive. From a distance at first, and now, up close.
It had been a rough summer; they had tried to sell the house, beginning in the spring, but had failed. Priscilla wanted to lower the price and move on, he would have just as soon stayed if no one met the price they’d agreed on, and so they sank into a state of silent hostility. If she brought it up he’d remind her that they had a deal; he didn’t want to talk about it, which she took correctly to mean he didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to do the thing that would make her happy.
Three forceful knocks on the door of Joe’s Tavern are unacknowledged. Joyful voices and laughter are heard inside. The knocking starts again and doesn’t stop until someone near the door decides to see what’s going on.
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