My Cardboard Balcony

Old Habits Sleep Easily by Belinda Roddie Remember you said that you'd stop biting your nails, scratching your scalp, blowing your nose into your wet, wet palms and wiping them onto the car seat while you drive, picking your scabs, spitting in the dirt, and sticking your fingers into your ears, drawing out thin, thin strands of orange and brown wax? ...I guess I woke up your old habits, didn't I? Sorry.

Diane is so outgoing! She's incredibly outgoing. She'll talk to anyone, even the wide-eyed, drooling stranger asking for beer on the street. She won't give him change, though, or call someone to have him taken to a hospital. But she's unbelievably outgoing. One time she went to a party and made out with every boy there. And a couple of girls, too. They didn't remember it in the morning. I wonder if they had any diseases. But Diane is so painfully outgoing. One time, she decided to meet my boyfriend, and they've been together for two years now. Even though my boyfriend said we'd get married! Isn't that something. She's so diabolically outgoing.

The Headache by Belinda Roddie Richie had a headache so bad that it split his nerves straight down from his nose to his chin couldn't feel much of anything with smell or taste when he ate ice cream it just dribbled down his face

His letter in shorthand apologized for not having enough money to pay off the monthly $60 increments of gas; for not always coming home on time, given the traffic; for not having the family room vacuumed exactly during the same day as requested. He was sorry for the temper tantrums, the overspending, and the occasional emotional meltdowns that molded his poor brain like soft silver.

Boomerang by Belinda Roddie Like a dry martini that leaves your poor stomach churning wet worries - like a dark gray text looming on a cellphone screen saying she wants a second chance - like a "I forgive you" coupled with a frothy "let's not see each other anymore" that you can't swallow very well without something spicy to go with it. The cryptic magnet message on your fridge. The curled sheets on the left side of your bed. The crisp air swirling snow and dust around your frame as you wait for him to come around again at the bus stop.

While he was tasting the country merlot, I was sitting in the corner with a loaf of bread and a bundle of grapes, their fruity fingers taunting me as I dangled the fruits above my gaping mouth. As I worked the seeds out from between my teeth, I saw a red-dressed lady swirling chardonnay in a long-stemmed glass, only she was paying attention to me and not the wine.

The instrumental playing over the airport intercom was hardly an instrumental. It was more like a painfully stilted rendition of what should have been a brilliant piece of classical music, only the flute sounded like a tin whistle, the oboes were like rubbing metal against metal, and the whole melody sounded like it was being squished down a funnel and turned into a disgusting cacophonic soup.