Sonya's so good that all the guys
pick on her， so the evening's narrative goes. I've heard she wears
yellow t-shirts each time to match her hair. Last time her tennis
shoes got so dusty that she had to throw them out because there
was no way on earth that they could be white again.
Trunks shrink like deflated accor-
dions， like melodramatic arguments after they've met face to
face with someone's indifference. A baby cries and pouts
while her mother is trying to scoop more Velveta on to her
nacho. The father is strung out on something， someone in
back of us says. A teenager with severe acne turns around
and fires a dart full of cavities into my gaze. We give in to the
pleasure of destruction for the sheer sake of waste. What
inside， the collision， the jerk on the nape that makes the
driver wonder whether this one's it. Swallow me dust while
the crowd cheers and claps its French fries away into the
space between a nearby neon and the floodlights gathering
an army of many sized moths.