My Cardboard Balcony

Hardly Hearty by Belinda Roddie Normally I'd believe that a meal made for two would nourish one lonely individual, but indeed, when the steak scrapes the palate with medium rare confusion, it's hard to stomach an extra glass of wine or a bowl of forelorn greens. It's war against the appetite and the real hunger behind a fork, sucking the grease off the prongs one by one, licking for spare juices, when all I want is to salivate against a living tongue, not a grilled one. No. You clear the tables. I'm going to lie down, sleep this burden off, and refuse seconds unless they're offered with a bottle of burnt bourbon.

When walking through the mass of drone-like passerby, it's good to catch a lady's eye with a suit. Modeling a suit on the sidewalk of San Francisco, short cut just kissing my neck. Sweet smile, sweeter eyes to flutter lashes with. Hardly a word spent between a citizen and a stylish dapper. Never mind the minimal exchanges. I just want to look good.