
DENVER by Tess Pollok
He was angry. He was scared of her. He was scared of the post office. Everything is on accident or everything is on purpose or everything is both.

He was angry. He was scared of her. He was scared of the post office. Everything is on accident or everything is on purpose or everything is both.

What they couldn’t see: his heart pumping arterial and venial dilated with rage at being short but filled with fearless venom.

We were always competing for not-worst drunk. But we were also secretly competing for worst drunk. So both of us always won. And lost.

If I could only stay kind and beautiful, I, too, could survive on the happiness contained in a single shot of frat boy whiskey. But I always had trouble with kindness.

“They don’t feel anything, do they?” she says. He smiles at her. His smile says, who cares if they do.

He knows without a shadow of a doubt that he cannot die. It makes him reckless in a way everyone loves, except for Steve-O.

Mosi is Sprite, Banji is Coca Cola. Whoever loses, does the rounds to check for hippos that might have strayed too far.

The music lifted like a cosmic prayer. Then the collective scream: the squawk, the beef and bleat of the slaughter, a rumbling dusk arcing across the auditorium.

I’m about to reverse out when I think–drunk kid. In my car. And I’m drunk. Maybe a bad idea.

But there are two kinds of shame: the kind that you cannot speak the words to, even in your head, and the kind you can’t stop talking about. I told the story for years.