My Cardboard Balcony

Remnants of the Individual by Belinda Roddie Hot-fingered and cold-hearted, lingering over bottles and bowls of shriveled pistachios, the eight o'clock stragglers watch the baseball game go awry for the home team. I drink whiskey and soda and my own curdled spit just to add some sort of flavor to my everyday existence. I straddle the line between sin and self-loathing, remembering the days when I was nestled against a warm body, belonging to someone cold-fingered and hot-hearted, lingering between sheets and on pillows full of dying feathers, clinging to my hips as the lights went out all over the whole damn crazy town.

I wanted to make a cake, but we were out of flour. I went to the grocery store, but the store was closed for cleaning purposes. I thought I'd drive my car to the next available store, but my automobile just wouldn't start. So I started to walk. Only I bore a whole in my shoe, faceplanted after tripping over a bump in the sidewalk, and wound up just having my girlfriend buy a cake on her way home from work.