Lori pistol-whipped me with her loose tongue, slurring infidelities over shots of vodka. A cracked vase, flowers simmered centered on the kitchen table, melted the wax beneath the pride bubbling the wine I puked, telling me she didn’t know the father’s name of the child inside her. Lori fixed her lips to pray God would weather the kid’s skin tone to mine.

(© 2022 AC)

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