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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 6, Number 1, March 2012


Ed Markowski
Auburn Hills, Michigan, USA

Roy's Place

She lights another Marlboro, snaps a swizzle stick in half and throws down Mister Johnny Walker Black like a first team all pro, All American Bar Fly. She scans me from North to South and from East to West. "He wrecked me. That miserable prick wrecked me. He took the kids. He took the car. He took the credit cards. And, he took Cheryl, the little bitch three doors down who shined his shoes and kissed his royal ass every time I sent him out to Luke's Market for a gallon of milk. If I never see that skirt-chasing son of a bitch again, it'll be too soon. So what about you Mister Handsome Wrapped In Faded Denim, how many women did you fuck over after you fucked 'em and promised them the world ?"

She says all of this to me like we've been best friends dating all the way back to the days of teddy bears, tricycles, jump rope, jacks, and tooth fairies. It seems to me like we do know each other, and have known each other on intimate terms for years. I don't say a word. I turn my back to her, and to my mid morning face hanging on a crucifix between two fifths of bad whiskey on Roy's long dark cherry wood bar, still searching for the reason I did what I did with our neighbor Sheryl for three months before and after Laura had the twins when we lived happily ever after on Eureka Avenue in Grand Rapids.

polishing the mirror
three old scars
good as new



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