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{the place i go to wait for myself} taylor eagan At 3 A.M., drunk at the Paper Moon, I watch Hilary stack jelly packets on top of each other. "It's a fort," she says, her eyes red from smoking in the car with the windows rolled up. Kate orders fries and chocolate milk, knocks down the jelly fort with the salt. I laugh until I realize I've been wiping my nose on a sweatshirt that isn't mine. I can't remember where I got it; its red unfamiliar from the night of black. I pull the drawstrings until the hood is tight around my neck and double-knot them. Hilary tells us her neighbor was found dead in his garage this morning, the car running in park. The fries come, but we've already finished the milk and I leave the sweatshirt on my seat when I leave. |
