Pucker and Breathe


I see it all in a three second glance through the ivy covered fence. Locked knees and stiff bodies around the picnic table lead to tales of too much confused testosterone and words that can’t hide it. There is a card game being played and no one is saying too much, not that they ever do…

Where is Tony with the bottle of Fireball? He never shows up at the right time. Maybe that’s his super power; the inability to recognize a situation and act accordingly. 2 A.M. is a terrible time for Fireball. Or the perfect time. Damnit Tony.

God my ass hurts from this seat. And I can’t fart or I’m never getting laid from anyone at this party. I’ve taken that risk before and there’s no fucking way I’m doing that again. I’ll suck it up. Pucker and breathe, that’s the key, pucker and breathe.

Damn Julie looks fine. I wonder if she likes me. I wish it was easier to figure that out. I need to slow down, I’m getting too drunk. Drunk is okay, but I can’t get sloppy. Nothing kills a night like a guy falling into everybody and nodding off mid-sentence.

What’s the right thing to say and when is the right time to say it? I always think of it too late. Maybe that makes me seem more thoughtful and wise. Or maybe they think I’m stupid. Maybe I am since I never have the right thing to say. Maybe I…

The scene fades as it often does through the rear view. Our not-so-saintly hero may escape his neurosis long enough to pick up a girl, or pull a number, or he may end up passed out in a corner getting permanent marker penises drawn all over him. All from three seconds through a fence hole, voices battling a car stereo for prominence. All waiting to tell their own story in short bursts among the confusion.


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