My Cardboard Balcony

Can I Come Over? by Belinda Roddie Let's entertain each other in the big living room while your parents are sleeping off the wine and whiskey and your brother is screaming at the video game he's slammed into his Playstation. He's hoping to take down pixelated terrorists, but we'll just turn on a camera and do bad celebrity and character impressions, before we grab the spare curtain rods turning gray in the corner and have a lightsaber battle outside, near the swimming pool. Once the duel is done, and we both declare ourselves the victors, I'll dunk my head into the chlorinated underworld and let the water snap from my hair like the stuff's got whiplash. You act like you're impressed by my tomfoolery, which is endearing, but not necessary. We've been friends for  a long time. I'll use the shirt you're wearing to towel off my head. You'll cope with the shenanigans until you're heavy with sleep, and I'm drunk off

Johnny dumped so much syrup on his pancakes that it spilled onto the tablecloth, and his mother yelped and complained about the stickiness. "Honestly, Johnny, don't you know how to not  make a mess?" she opined, as Johnny's father got up to get a wet paper towel. The six-year-old sprite didn't care; he just happily munched on his short stack, giggling as the maple spread across his teeth and stuck to his pursed, smacking brown lips.