Intrusive Thoughts

They stood by the pool table and Meg ran her finger over the green felt. She wondered how long it had been there; how many beers had been spilt across its surface despite the laminated signs taped to each side: NO DRINKS ON POOL TABLE!!!

Alan hadn’t listened. His glass sat a few inches from her hand, and Meg thought about reaching over, hooking her finger over the rim, and soaking the table in Johnnie Walker. He would be so mad. Alan’s drink of choice, watch, shoes, and cellphone might’ve said he could afford it, but Meg knew that was all keeping up with the Jones’ bullshit.

Meg. She liked the way her nail polish looked while she traced lines into the stained fabric.

Meg. The green made her red fingertips look bright and tacky, like Christmas lights up in July. She thought of home.

“Meg! Damn it. Are you even listening?”

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Bad Circulation

You think I have bad circulation. You leave the windows open all night, and I walk through the fresh air wrapped in wool sweaters and puppy dog slippers. You open windows, I close them and we smile politely at each other in the hallway. You demand, “How can you be cold?” And I touch my fingertips to the back of your neck, glacier peaks on hot stone. You freeze and I understand Medusa.

At night I sleep with three blankets, two cats, and the gnawing inclination that you’ve opened the windows again. I get up, eat some of your cheese, close the windows, and lay in bed rubbing my ice cold toes together. In an hour you will get up, eat some of my grapes, and so we will continue, rising and falling like glass panels.

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