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Marcelle Heath

fiction writer & editor

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You returned to your happy life. A year passed. And another. Mine was still waiting for me.

 

Eldorado

Craig liked his room ice-cold and the song called Providence for its tale of drugs lost in a garbage can. Did you find your shit? he mimicked, shooting black rubber bands from his wide wrists. His maroon Eldorado had a sunroof he kept open in bad weather. At the diner, he ordered french-fries he wouldn’t share. Eventually he went to college, became a film major, and wrote me letters about his misdeeds and ski trips to Idaho. It was during this time I slept with three men who were friends and then were not. He dropped out his second year and returned home with the idea he liked sushi. I watched a group of people jam the revolving door. Two in one slot, four in the other. Changing his name to Zach and then Tyler, he spent time with some underage girls who didn’t mind his habit of crooking his forefinger over his mouth when he laughed. Or the laugh itself, which was really a snicker, reserved for jokes about fat chicks and New Jersey. On the table, a moat of ketchup arose between us, and outside the Eldorado shimmered in the moonlight like a prom queen, her tin crown stars in the sky.

 

At the Rose Festival

“I couldn’t drink because of the meds, but my sobriety didn’t help me from being hustled out of sixty dollars by a Lt named Chloe playing pool. Annie did shots with two guys with names that also started with the letter A. “Triple A,” one joked, licking bits of lime from his lips.”

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