My Cardboard Balcony

Meet Me At O'Toole's by Belinda Roddie As if I were psychic, I knew you were waiting outside the diner, standing with a napkin to wipe the grease away from my mouth, the salt from my lips and my eyes. You told me that the way the eatery is built allows someone to look in, but not out. I believed it. Whenever I wanted to look out at the urban world of red lights and parking meters, I only caught the reflection of my stained sweater after dropping a meatball onto my chest. Outside, the smell of failing brakes overpowered the cheap odor of cheese and beef, chili pepper and lemon. You took your time swabbing at my collar, prodding the skin beneath, tender as an undercooked pork chop, shame marinating the nerves beneath, until finally, with every ounce of courage left in my full belly, I asked you to stop.

Laura was surprised to see a group of fans already huddled beneath her hotel balcony. She sighed and lit a cigarette. There wasn't much noise coming from the swarm, just the slight breeze and the light tapping of rain drizzling down on the wooden paneling of her window. To the right of Laura, by the bed, a bottle of champagne was submerged in half-melted ice, slowly growing warmer and warmer with the impending summer storm.