205.348.7264 mfj@sa.ua.edu


Tori Linville



You sit in your room. It’s not really yours. Your roommate has a boy over. She screams in the next room.

Little black hairs are all over the floor and there’s a pool of laundry detergent by the fridge. The phone rings but all you can think about are your misplaced bobby pins.

Friday night. You’re supposed to go to a bar. You forget which one. The faces all blur into one big mass of swirling hair and eyes and noses. You pick out a girl to watch. She’s staring at a guy across the room. You follow her eyes across to the guy who doesn’t know she’s breathing. He’s focused on his beer and the girl grinding her ass on his crotch. You never really got that dance move. Your friends nudge you to dance. You signal for them to go without you.

A guy comes and sits next to you. He starts asking you questions and calls you sweetheart. You feel like grabbing his throat and squeezing until his eyeballs fall out. Instead you smile and go with him to get messy fries when he tells you to.

You go home.

You grab the broom.

You start sweeping the little black hairs.

You find your bobby pins.