ANGIE AND HER ROOMMATE DON’T REALIZE THEY’RE FRIENDS YET
People fall in and out of things so quickly. One minute, you’re soaking in self-pity, fifty yards from anyone, even the person in the next room.
Acne-ridden, shorter than you remember, you stand before your mirror, barely filling your reflection as you rehearse the day’s dialogue.
But before you know it, you have a shadow, a voice to share the time with. You wake up knowing you don’t have to fight so much, at least not alone. There’s a down-feather shoulder one knock, one text away. And for once you don’t have to worry about making a mess of things.
THE POETRY OF INVINCIBILITY OR EVERY SUNRISE FEELS LIKE GAME SEVEN OF THE WORLD SERIES
Angie and her roommate shout-sing and talk of puppy love as if high school was so very far behind them. They reek of breathy wisdom, the sweaty scent of a thousand victory laps around the quad, their territory marked by spat-out splinters, fingernail fragments sitting on top of the grass, still shivering with worry in the wind.
Triumph isn’t picky, rewarding those who interpret every sunrise as another check in the win column. And sometimes, that’s a good thing. They are triumphant. Declared majors and everything.
SHOULD’VE GONE TO BED
Angie and her roommate love Starbucks, or any peddler of sugar-laced adult habits. They taste so much better than the tin pot they found on grandpa’s table. And five dollars feels like a fair price, just a little fistful of cash for a temporary rug to ride between crashes, between reminders that geography class still gives a grade, and even though it’s beautiful to talk, to greet the 3 am hour, they should have studied, gone to bed earlier. But the fear of missing out is much heavier than any test on Prussian borders, any syllabus, any other thing.
FILM SCHOOL
Angie and her roommate share a Netflix subscription, their queue a veritable who’s who of the daily buzz, the did-you-sees from their classes and Twitter feeds. And while it grows, they’re still inclined to search, settling on a colorful nugget of their childhood, or a movie that seemed so easy to watch, but leaves them wet and sour, calling their mothers to apologize for the holidays they’ve left crumbled, and the ones they’ll miss when they get older. Texting exes they should have long forgotten because if a cinematographer does her job right, you can see your own heart rotting in the scenery somewhere, and just for a second it looks like everyone else’s. Relating is their new hobby, but sometimes Angie’s roommate watches without her, jumps ahead, leaves Angie behind to sift through the bloody footage, trying to relate in the damndest of hurries.
Alien Buddha Press 