I don’t know why you can smell rain and lightning coming on. Same as I don’t know why I married Crystal. Twice. Billy-Idol blonde, S curves smooth as hourglass sand, salt and pepper bob, she hisses venom whenever another woman smiles at me. Last night, as I made a mental list of things to avoid buying at the Dollar Store, the moths twitched against the porch’s bare bulb. In the blue-white light, she stubbed out her cigarette, turned to me, and like a bored executioner, said, I don’t know about you, Lucky, but I can’t sleep in all this heat.
Appears in OPEN Journal of Arts and Letters December, 2020
