My Cardboard Balcony

After The Heat Wave by Belinda Roddie After the heat wave, the fires still grew in rugged swaths, like a wild red beard across a dry jawline aching for water or sweet wine to moisten the palate. We sat where the air was coolest, sharing a single bottle of something strong, as the moon turned orange from the breath of a dragon untamed by the reins of the chariot. Nights like these reminded me of how I adored frost on windows, and of how, if I was lucky, the rain would create patterns for me to draw when the canvas lacked oil or color. But the discomfort of summer still draped his arm across the sky, and there was nothing but the smoke of an angry god's cigar while her scaly pet snored loudly in its sleep.

She wore bright red flannel and old denim jeans. She was every lesbian's happiest dream. She drank only dark stout and shunned IPA. Looking at her, I knew I was totally gay. We danced after drinking a beer or six. We went to her room, and she showed me her tricks. She told me in the morning that she'd be sure to call. The stereotype was complete: Time for the U-Haul!