It More Than Sucks
Sophie
broke up with me, Mike says
before
I can even sit down next to him
at
the bar. She says I like watching football
more
than spending time with her.
Oh,
man, I say. That really sucks.
I
get the bartender’s attention, point
to
the Pabst bottle and shot glass
in
front of Mike, indicate that
we
need two more of each.
It
more than sucks, Mike says.
I’ll
never meet anyone like her again.
I
put my arm around his shoulder,
remind
him that’s exactly what he said
when
Stephanie divorced him
and
when Karen dumped him
three
months ago. He says
he
means it this time, Sophie was
really
special. I tell him to forget her,
he’ll
be over her in a couple weeks.
We
watch the bartender put the drinks
in
front of us, then down our shots
of
Jim Beam and a swallow of beer chaser.
As
we stare at ourselves silently in the mirror
behind
the bar, Mike says, Sophie was going
to
get her nipples pierced for me, too,
I
was really looking forward to that.
I
tell him that, sure, that would be pretty cool,
but
he’s still way better off without her.
I
don’t know, he says. She was talking
about
all three of them. Think about it.
After
a few seconds where all I hear
is
the clack of pool balls behind us,
I
tell him that Sophie might be special
after
all. Chug that beer, I advise him,
then
go give her a call and beg her
to
take you back. Promise to do whatever
she
wants because she sure as hell sounds
a
lot more fun than watching football.
Repent By David J. Thompson
Fluff
And Fold
In
lieu of paying taxes,
my
landlord now keeps
four
mental patients
from
the county asylum
shackled
to the wall
in
the musty basement
of
my apartment building.
My
neighbors complain
that
they can’t get to sleep
at
night because the nuts scream
and
rattle at all hours, but when
I
go downstairs to do laundry
they
always have quarters
for
the washer and dryer,
and
they’re happy to help me
fluff
and fold my clothes even
with
one arm chained to the wall.
Montana Doors by David Thompson
My
Real Name
She
asks me if I want chocolate cake
for
dessert. No, Maria, I say, showing her
both
my palms in an I give up gesture.
I
can’t eat another bite. Really, I can’t
It’s
my weekly dinner with the old woman
across
the hall. She’s skinny as can be
with
the world’s most narrow face
framed
by thin white hair hanging lifeless
and
uncombed to the collar of her housecoat.
Thanks
for dinner, Maria, I tell her
as
I push back my chair to stand up,
I’m
in a hurry to get back to my apartment
for
the ballgame that starts in a few minutes.
She
motions for me to stop, says softly,
You
know, Maria isn’t my real name.
Really?
I answer. What is it then?
She
looks away toward the back window.
I
don’t know, she replies like she’s talking
to
herself. C’mon, I say. How can you not know
your
own name? She grips her wine glass
but
doesn’t drink. Without any emotion
she
says, At the end of the war I was
in
a camp for lost children, you know,
and
it seemed like weeks since I had eaten.
They
gave me a cardboard badge
with
my name on it, but while I stood
in
the next long line, I was so hungry
that
I couldn’t resist eating it. That’s all
I
remember except that it tasted pretty good
and
everyone started calling me Maria.
For
a few seconds all I could hear was
the
faint hum of the refrigerator.
Sweet
Jesus, Ma . . ., I said breaking off
the
last word about halfway and pulling
my
chair back up to the table. Do you have
any
ice cream to go with that cake?
Last Stop Party Shop by David Thompson
David J. Thompson is a poet and photographer, and Zombie Logic Review's roving correspondent
Closed Twice by David J. Thompson
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