My Cardboard Balcony

Minivan by Belinda Roddie Ten teenagers piled into a broken down uncle's minivan with two bottles of Tullamore Dew, a plastic jug of lukewarm sangria, and a twelve-pack of apricot ale stolen from an ignorant parent's refrigerator. The first teenager popped the cap of one bottle and let it fly into the second teenager's forehead, leaving a dent so precise that it was like a crescent moon etched into the skin of a stunned moon goddess. The third and fourth teenagers found a corner to kiss in, while the last six juvenile jesters turned up the radio as loud as they could before the battery drained away and the engine wouldn't sing to life. And they all soaked the booze from glass vessels of shame, and they all climbed to the roof so the alloy sagged beneath their knees. And they all ran for the bushes when the cop car whipped by, the silent streak lost in the symphony of tires on the wet concrete.

"Her feelings are pretty overt, man," the barista told me, referring to her coworker, who stood in the corner with her back turned as she repeatedly washed the same glass in the sink. I sighed. "I'm flattered," I said. "Really, I am. But I'm happily taken." The barista shrugged. "Anything could change." "And I plan to propose to her," I added sternly. "Still, anything could change." "Like your attitude?" I sneered.