My Cardboard Balcony

Asiago with Black Coffee by Belinda Roddie The crisp cheddar conversation began with dilated pupils over an IV drip drop drip splashed with artificial sweetener. I drank my coffee like muddy pitch, sticky tar coating the trembling uvula that withheld all the secrets not best told for brunch chit-chat. You thought the stuff in pink packets would be better for you than sugar, but your tongue missed the cane like white splinters between white knuckles in your gums. And while we talked, a man stumbled by asking for change, not for a bus ride to San Francisco or for a small cylinder escape, but instead for a bagel, sesame seed, with cream cheese.

"Start your engines!" the pubescent announcer squeaked on the makeshift intercom as the tiny little automobiles revved up. As Bobby McFinn lowered his helmet, he did not notice his father beaming from the crowd of bystanders waiting for the race to begin. Boys and girls from nine to thirteen years old all prepared for the competition, vehicles splashed with colors and stickers and stars. But Bobby did see Jessica Bonnet at her sleek black racecar, giving him the thumbs up.