My Cardboard Balcony

Scratching Her Back by Belinda Roddie The fingernails chafing the skin just right, every bump, groove, and crease on a pinkish brown valley twitching in waves when the itch is sated. The kisses lingering on the raw, tender target, the bulls-eye buried beneath layer upon layer of cutaneous tissue, chalky and warm from all the scraping. She says I made a valiant effort to soothe her, and for now, it's the only imaginary medal I can wear, as she pulls her shirt back down across her shoulders, settles into her computer chair, and turns her eyes away.

I stopped by one of the little souvenir shops at the airport in order to pick up a specific bag of chocolates. Otis had always liked the brand, and it was nearly impossible to find anywhere else except in a cold, harsh terminal with thousands of frazzled customers dragging suitcases and crying children (perhaps crying children tucked in suitcases as well) trying to head toward their respective gates. I walked up to the counter and forked out five dollars for the candy, the cashier eyeing me intently.