The boys drank in one room. The girls in another. Always the same, no matter the letters.
Shabby sofa on the burnt-out lawn.
Sometimes the lawn was wet and green, and sometimes the sofa was plaid, but not that night. That night, she stood on the lawn thinking that she should have brought a coat but didn’t. She thought she might leave to get one, but just as she thought maybe, yes, someone handed her a smile in a red plastic cup, a cramped closet to hide in, and a warm hand to lead her there.
So come join the party in Cheryl Anne Gardner’s latest Molly Was a Fucking Tourist now featured at Vagabond City Journal. Just remember — there are rules.