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Like a Pretzel

Summer was cooling off. The steam shot up from the sidewalk grates and the smell of roasted peanuts and hotdogs spread through the streets. Wendy had invited me to a job with her at a place more rich than modest, where a fat man lived. We played truth or dare, which ended up a game of dare, which ended up as Wendy and I and the fat man twisted together like a pretzel on his unmade bed. Wendy was like a machine. She didnít stop, her hands and tongue going on and on, here and there. Her skin was fleshy, not tight like mine. She kissed me in my mouth. Her hair brushed my cheekbone. She smelled of vanilla and dirt. She was beautiful in a way that I wasnít. She was contaminated like a dirty pond, ugly beautiful.

Something stirred in me then, like when you suddenly become aware that youíre the farthest one out in the ocean, and there isnít anything around you but deep water. I began to squirm and I slipped free. Wendy and the fat man did not acknowledge my exit but joined together in a way that left little room for me.

I wobbled down the hallway, then into the living room with the fallen picture frames. The bills lay on the coffee table, fresh and crisp, next to my purse. Ahead of me, in the dim light, I could see the front door.

Story by:

Dana Verdino

dcv206@nyu.edu

submitted at 2:32pm

23 April 2010