WE CAN'T STOP TALKING OR
WE DON'T TALK AT ALL
BY ALANA KUMBIER
We want more rock, less talk. We make a trip to the United Dairy Farmers every night for ice cream cones and milkshakes, even though it’s getting colder daily and we have to put on our sweaters to go out.
We play croquet with the black walnuts that fall with alarming velocity out of the trees and crowd the patchy grass in our front yard. We swing, we cheer, we threaten to steal our neighbor’s nice, shiny, pro-quality golf clubs for further walnut sport. His bedroom window is always open, we can always climb in.
We go to the dyke strip club. The dancers wear starry bras and dirty white socks that glow in the blacklight. We get depressed, we get drunk, none of us tip much and no one gets a private dance. There’s no Britney Spears on the jukebox and none of us feel like going onstage during open strip.
We notice that one of our cats is slimming down as the others thicken up. This negates our household hypothesis that we're all putting on winter weight.
We fumble around and fuck in the dark until one of us gets hurt. We wake up in the morning and try again, sexy and serious and filled with purpose, even though we know it won't come to anything.
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