I don’t know how I slept through it, the party you and your friends had in my car. In my driveway. You had fun, though. Left a half-finished beer in the cup-holder. Snuffed a cigarette in the tray we used for bandages. Swapped my proof of insurance for a condom.
You also unthreaded the belt through the child’s seat.
That was subtle. I didn’t notice it at first.
Years later, I still think about your joke. I wonder if you’ve ever felt self-hate as piercing as mine.
In my better moments, when the sun is shining, I hope you have.
Graham Robert Scott was born in California, but now resides in north Texas. A born scofflaw, he owns neither surfboard nor cowboy hat. His stories have appeared in Nature, Barrelhouse, and Pulp Literature. In addition to tweeting semi-regularly at @graythebruce, he blogs at https://hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Maura Yzmore 