Crooked Teeth

I used to know this guy. Real earnest type. Always expected the best, unaware that the worst was also a possibility. The friend in this piece is not that guy, but it could be. The bar, however—the bar is real. Or it was: it closed long ago when the owners moved on. Stayed shuttered for years, until recently when it was picked up and re-skinned as an upscale brewpub. I imagine the boiler is no longer there. Originally published in The Coachella Review, Winter 2022.

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I’M STANDING on the shore with a burnt smoke in one hand and a beer in the other, and John’s talking but I can barely hear him over the roar of the fire. I think he says he’s leaving, but when I look at him, he’s still there and it’s not what he said at all. He said something different and he’s staring at me, waiting. 

“What?” I say. He looks nervous and jumpy. 

“You heard me.” 

I try to pretend that I did, or that I care, but it’s a lost cause from the start, so I stand there. My beer’s empty and I need another one. John notices the shift and blows air through his lips:

“Alicia, man. It’s Alicia.” He waves his hands like he’s trying to take flight. “What do you think?”

Read the rest at The Coachella Review (free).