Short-Short Written on My Lunch Break Beginning with a Line by Shanna Compton

(The original, here.)

“Quick, grab the Kodak,” Wilhemena stage-whispered. “Someone’s flummoxed Bill.” Always such a busybody! But Bob’s agile mental perambulations indeed had snookered this girl’s husband under the foldable card table laid out thick with hot dish. “Cut him off,” the rude gal snorted into our hostess’s eager ear. Bill’s eyes bugged. “Oh, this is too precious,” Wilhemena hooted, fever-pitched. Bill barfed a rude stew: cranberry daquiri, vodka tonic, Senora Traffico’s Frito pie; Carmine’s Instamatic flashed and clicked; I blushed like a whore in church. Thus floundered the Kickboxers’ virgin picnic, circa aught four, the year the leaves stayed on the trees all winter. Remember? The television weatherman implied circumstantial millenialism nightly, aping John of Patmos through to Easter. And the picnic? That was that, such as it is. That Kodak smacked sorry William’s state senatorial aspirations. The sad sack sublimated his sorrows in the book of Mormon Saturday nights, trannie hookers down on Alabama Avenue Sunday mornings. I couldn’t hack it. See you later, what-all remaining tatters, his and my done-for marriage. I heard tell the old fool shacked up out in Vegas with a latter-day Brazilian elbowgrease saleslady, jointly hawking second-hand snow monkeys to perennial unwitting Norwegian tourists, but I pay no never-mind. I read scripture. No reminder necessary. I’m a cheek-turner.