Elizabeth Vidas

I wake up to a dick in my brain. It’s the third time this week. The dick is hefty and hairy: I know it’s hefty because I accidentally left photo-mode on holograph.

We wore blue skirts, short skirts, plaid skirts, blouses. We rode the subway through stares. We went to chapel, ran laps around Central Park.

She caught Stan coming out of the bathroom, one hand down his pants as he fumbled with his shirttails.



“Stan, come with me,” she said. “I have something to show you in the hydrangeas.”



Not the most seductive line, but Stan was her second-to-last target, she was tired, and he would certainly follow her into the bushes or under the kitchen sink if she asked. Sure enough, in five minutes she had undone his carefully tucked dress shirt, and he was grasping at her breasts with puffy pal...

Fire billowed from the skyscraper, dissolving into the air. At first, I thought it was just that. A fire in a building.