My Cardboard Balcony

Boomerang by Belinda Roddie Like a dry martini that leaves your poor stomach churning wet worries - like a dark gray text looming on a cellphone screen saying she wants a second chance - like a "I forgive you" coupled with a frothy "let's not see each other anymore" that you can't swallow very well without something spicy to go with it. The cryptic magnet message on your fridge. The curled sheets on the left side of your bed. The crisp air swirling snow and dust around your frame as you wait for him to come around again at the bus stop.

While he was tasting the country merlot, I was sitting in the corner with a loaf of bread and a bundle of grapes, their fruity fingers taunting me as I dangled the fruits above my gaping mouth. As I worked the seeds out from between my teeth, I saw a red-dressed lady swirling chardonnay in a long-stemmed glass, only she was paying attention to me and not the wine.