shot glass
Issue # 5 September 2011
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Ben Reed

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Hey, there's the Chariot, stopped at a red light, and there's Darryl right there, two knuckles deep into his nose, his other hand flicking tobacco ash out the window. And here is Jamie, driving and inching parallel to Darryl in the left-turn lane, her green Honda making those weird clicking sounds again. She looks at him first, watches him dig for that elusive booger, trying different size fingers. Nobody ever feels anybody staring at them-that is a myth. Oblivious, Darryl, until Jamie taps her horn all lady-like. The Honda's honky fart makes him jump, first he looks right then left and doesn't recognize her, then: Oh, hey Jamie! and resumes picking his nose, What's up? Jamie smiles back and looks kind of beautiful and untouchable but she says Oh, nothing I guess. Jamie gets the green arrow and she splits off down a new road while Darryl waits, digging, for permission to continue driving straight ahead.