by Charles Rafferty
That was the season I wrote everything in Lucida, instead of Times New Roman. There were no planets in the sky whenever I thought to look for them, and I kept in my wallet a picture of the girl I thought I'd marry behind a picture of the girl I was with. By July, the caterpillars had eaten every tree in town, but they releafed in August, and it was strange to see that shade of new green edging the backyard thunderstorms. I looked through a bell of cheap chardonnay and saw the world distorted, exactly as it was. At some point, I chipped my tooth on a peach pit but didn't have the money to fix it. It's at home on me now — like the scar from my smallpox vaccination, or the sweater I kept by accident after a host had loaned it to me when he learned that I was cold.