Four Dollars In Quarters

Four Dollars In Quarters

Sunday begins. My boyfriend tells me I need to write to let it all out, to feel normal. I tell him what I need is a job, a stand-up boyfriend, some groceries, and maybe a baby. We are not trying, not preventing: NTNP.

I do not drive to Indian Hills Laundromat because I only have four dollars in quarters. Everyone knows you can’t launder with that kind of money. Instead, I drive around town, pumping the heat, blasting Bob (We play everything!), just hoping for a heartbreaker.

This you should know: I have nothing. I have no hair, no dog, no true love, no house, no job, and no money. No joke! I’m, like, the perfect Buddhist.

I steal a jacket at Forever21 the color and texture of whale nipple. I only ask white businessmen for directions, because they are so good at explaining. When the fish jump in the river, so does my heart.

I drive around Wichita looking for my boyfriend. He could be anywhere: bar, strip club, Kinko’s, who-the-fuck-knows. I pass homeless figures transitioning into luggage.

I wish I had those two cigarettes my friend from Kansas City dropped from his pocket: white, slim, brandless. I want to tune out, become a chimney. I want to conduct, be a conduit, disappear.

He said he’d be home by now. Sometimes, if I get into bed in the middle of the day, I can lose myself in nightmares. The cool thing about nightmares, they end.

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