My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie When in Rome, find the nearest food cart and turn that bastard out of business to let him know you're done fucking around. Only don't do it with a girl with six tattoos and impressive biceps who runs a gelato cart on the corner. That shit may be sweet, but he is not. Also, do you have the number for a good doctor? Ever since the bitch dislocated my shoulder, I can't seem to pop it back in properly. Maybe the scrawny guy running the hot dog stand is good bait. Or maybe I'd like to keep both arms functional. This week's prompt was provided by José García.

Everyone wanted to see the ballet tonight. I couldn't tell if it was because of the Russian-like winter, or the Christmas spirit, or simply the fact that people felt like dressing up in tails and fur and sucking on candies in their big, red, cushioned seats. I was seated close to the front, close enough to hear one of the clarinetists breathe in and out of his mouthpiece before audibly screwing in his reed.