Alyson

I stared at the letters on the cup I had left on my dresser before travelling to Phoenix, trying to decide whether they got smaller following every row, while we all fought.

“Fab/ulo/us!” it read.

I could have sworn the “us!” was smaller.

Maybe I needed the rug to be yanked out from under me so that I could appreciate the floor that allowed it to be there.

My eyes were so consistently wet throughout the day that I could feel them melt with every tear. My father, the lawyer, chuckled when I exclaimed that I was constantly misrepresented by myself. But I felt so. The person who was speaking couldn’t possibly be as deserving of hate as the words that were coming out of her mouth. ♦