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I still leave the seat down by default in the bathroom even though the divorce has been official for a year and I live alone. I do it in case a girl comes over. She’ll know that I’m a good man when she sees that.
I feel like a dog bringing thrown sticks back to an owner that isn’t there.
My nickname for her was Lengthwise. She was tall but it was all leg. In the beginning, I thought she was very smart. She had a communications degree.
You wouldn’t know it from some of the fights we had near the end.
She became fluent in profanity to the point where she almost became bilingual. I remember hearing that in certain eastern languages, the same word can mean three or four things depending on what emphasis one puts on a part of the word. I know now what that means. She could inject new dimensions of subtext into common curse words just by shouting them in a different pitch.
The rain is hitting the windshield of my car in a downpour that my wipers can’t handle, turning the whole world outside into a Matisse painting.
I drive a cab now. After the scandal, I had to take a job that only cared about the points on my driver’s license.
She used to tease me about being too cautious of a driver. Who’s laughing now, eh? Well. Her. She is. Probably laughing her gorgeous ass off in a hot country with a new guy.
I turn left on Monica Boulevard. I can hear my fare sigh in the back seat. She’s bored and completely willing to just go where I’m going. She’s looking out at the rain. From where I’m sitting, she’s dreading her destination.
My name’s Donald Hamjeer.
People say that everything happens for a reason and that the universe is unfolding as it should. I have a really hard time believing that on days like this.
I stop at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. The red traffic light is swirling shapes through the rain on the windshield.
The girl in the back says “You can just let me out here.”
“We’re nowhere close to First and Vine.” I say back to her.
“Forget it.” She says, tossing a twenty into the front seat, and gets out into the rain with no umbrella.
tags
I feel like a dog bringing thrown sticks back to an owner that isn’t there.
My nickname for her was Lengthwise. She was tall but it was all leg. In the beginning, I thought she was very smart. She had a communications degree.
You wouldn’t know it from some of the fights we had near the end.
She became fluent in profanity to the point where she almost became bilingual. I remember hearing that in certain eastern languages, the same word can mean three or four things depending on what emphasis one puts on a part of the word. I know now what that means. She could inject new dimensions of subtext into common curse words just by shouting them in a different pitch.
The rain is hitting the windshield of my car in a downpour that my wipers can’t handle, turning the whole world outside into a Matisse painting.
I drive a cab now. After the scandal, I had to take a job that only cared about the points on my driver’s license.
She used to tease me about being too cautious of a driver. Who’s laughing now, eh? Well. Her. She is. Probably laughing her gorgeous ass off in a hot country with a new guy.
I turn left on Monica Boulevard. I can hear my fare sigh in the back seat. She’s bored and completely willing to just go where I’m going. She’s looking out at the rain. From where I’m sitting, she’s dreading her destination.
My name’s Donald Hamjeer.
People say that everything happens for a reason and that the universe is unfolding as it should. I have a really hard time believing that on days like this.
I stop at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. The red traffic light is swirling shapes through the rain on the windshield.
The girl in the back says “You can just let me out here.”
“We’re nowhere close to First and Vine.” I say back to her.
“Forget it.” She says, tossing a twenty into the front seat, and gets out into the rain with no umbrella.
tags