An Anniversary
Paul Corman-Roberts

I didn’t remember. Couldn’t remember, ’til all I remember is smoking the joint at Vista Point. Driving the local President’s car 100 miles too far without a driver’s license & I don’t know if she knew & even less sure she would even care.

That’s how desperate we were to kick your can down someone else’s road, where shaded cars parked on narrow shoulders gave off shady vibes underneath the redwood shade.

And the staff smiled those too sweet smiles somehow saying “at least it’s not jail.”

Out through the In-Patient door we went but for one last ride on Draco, merciful minutes that devolve into merciless seconds.

I’m not always so sure why it is you appreciate me now. I don’t feel particularly healed but neither is that your problem.

Paul Corman-Roberts prefers not to, but still does anyway. His first fiction collection, Sometimes You Invent New Words For Old Losses is out next year from Tainted Coffee Press.