Michael Grant Smith

Lauren’s parting words are a jigsaw puzzle dumped on the floor. Did she say Roger has a big dick? Or he is a big dick? Objectively, the second comment makes more sense. Her getaway last night was efficient and unimpeded by his begging. Maybe he ugly-cried. Today, Roger wanders the three-room Bermuda triangle of his apartment. Nothing reminds him of Lauren. The kitchen is stocked with disappointment. Roger opens the refrigerator, and it’s empty inside except for clinical white light that shines on the pantry behind him: shelves bearing soup can and pickle jar imprints in the dust.