I sink my teeth into my cheek,

and slam my eyes shut,

thinkin’ about a clip on an edited tape

sippin’ on a warm coffee

pressin’ the player

Goddamned disc ain’t there!

No, no, no! I say, shouting, kickin’ and searchin’

flippin’ the mattress off the bed

we lost our virginity on

to curb her depression

late last September

 A picture on the counter

I hold eye-level

wide-eyed blinking twice

Bubbles form in my throat

I gulp and spit

double over

Coffee and warm stomach fluid hit the carpet

like a blanket slapping the floor

Oh, fuck! I say

She’s pregnant

“Surprise!” Angie says, coming through the door.

“Care to explain what’s on this disc?” Her father asks, drumming it on his hand.

I choke on my tongue

and

collapse on the floor.

(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)

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