
ON BEAUTY by Amber Burke
I don’t mind when men talk and talk; then I don’t have to do anything. They fall in love all by themselves.

I don’t mind when men talk and talk; then I don’t have to do anything. They fall in love all by themselves.

But the product of this was both gushy and vain. Embarrassing. It was easy to read his real interest, which was carnal, puckered.

On break, he spoke to us through the order box. The sun warming our necks, we tossed French fries to seagulls and smelled the electric static on his breath.

They looked for the seller. They were sometimes lurking near the booth, watching as you handled the crockery. Watching as you flipped through the records.

The girl came out, banana in hand, and the guy from the back followed, loosening his fruit-stained apron, gaping at the climb.

Everybody in that coffee shop was always standing around, walking into each other, then backing up and trying again, like Sims, walking into the fridge, backing up, trying again.

Then there was nothing left to sell. The blood bank told us we needed to give our veins a rest. Should we try pickpocketing, we wondered.

That morning at Rincon marked a change in my relationship to the dinosaurs. Fewer and fewer would muster when I called a session until I stopped doing it so much. Felt like I was bugging them.

“Get out of here, pervert.” He doesn’t get out of here. People watch from their small islands of striped towels and coolers.

Momma’s bones are broken in so many places that the images look like fins in their oceanic blue-black glow. She’s lost so much lately.