My Cardboard Balcony

White Liver by Belinda Roddie He said he couldn't keep up with her. The train tracks were laid out, and he was running in his flip-flops against a grinning, hyper locomotive. Whistling all the way to the end. I passed him a cup of coffee and he drank it hard and fast. Kicking back caffeine like whiskey, in an effort to burp away the exhaustion. "She crashed into me," he announced, without shame, "like a tidal wave." Some people call this white liver, as in she had white liver. It's a weird image to me. The pure hue of an organ that has nothing to do with the hot comfort of a hotter bed. No wild ovaries, no aching loins or crazed, half-opened eyes. Just white liver. And as I sat at my kitchen table, watching him refill his coffee, I wondered if his stomach, or liver, could keep up with anything. While she, the smiling train, barreled onward, with a belly full of colorless fire.

They called it the decade of decadence. I called it the decade of overdues. The colors were brighter, the tastes of foods more natural, and everything urban becoming more natural in structure and hue. There were trees growing in unprecedented spots, and smog emissions had been cut drastically. We did not rely on a single president or Congress to decide major elements of our country. We became more independent. We became more democratic. That all should have happened years ago. And now the big shots were whining, as expected.