| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
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| © 2012 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| by Janice Pisello |
| But her face isn’t hot enough. Butter face, they say. Each boy has acne scars below their mouths, illuminated by the red glow of their cigarettes. They stand, facing away in the darkness, one kicking his boot against a tree. The bark falls away before him. Her rack, though, wow. What a rack. The other makes motions with his hands and laughs out a haze of smoke. Butter face just isn’t good enough. I can see my jaw line in memories of school restrooms, combing back straw hair. Wondering if girls washed their hands every time. My lips, slender nose, eyes with hints of cheap white eye shadow only the girls in junior high wore. I am quiet, surprised they can’t hear each spiky breath. My body shakes Wish she was hot. I’d fuck her. With a bag over her head. Butter face. One boy puts his cigarette out on the tree, smearing it hard. He stuffs the end in his jeans pocket. Her friend though, those baby blues. No rack, though. They are silent, shifting left and right against the night air. They aren’t allowed there, watching over the bleak Auto Zone parking lot, but their stance shows their consideration, kicking at rocks and grass and bugs. It is a wasteland for them, somewhere to dispose of honest thoughts and hopes. I’m not supposed to be there, invading, but I am. Red and blue lights pass through the fence behind me. Both boys flinch, the second stabbing out his cigarette. I watch each ash vanish into the bark. He flicks it to the ground and steps on it, circling his toes into the earth like a nervous habit. I turn to go. It’s late. Do you think I should do it anyway? She’d do it. Butter face’d do anything. One of the boys grunts and a shrug falls on his shoulders. Their messy hair is in the shadows of another tree, away from the lights lining the parking lot. Creases in their jeans are so dark I can’t see them. Go on and try it. Just close your eyes. Teach her some things. My teeth open my lower lip and I taste blood. It’s sweet, like tomato juice and celery. I wonder about each boy undressed, cigarettes dangling from their dried lips. I touch my eyelids, pressing hard so a maze of white and black dances before me. |
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| April 2012 |
| 137 |
| ***BIO*** Janice Pisello received a BFA in Creative Writing from Bowling Green State University, also earning a minor in Popular Culture. She studied under inspirations like Theresa Williams and Robert Olmsted. Her work has previously appeared in pacificREVIEW and Weave magazine. When she’s not writing, she is an editor, amateur photographer, and lover of late-night waffles. |