Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Lemonade

     The more they dance, the worse I feel. All that black flesh jiggling and shimmying and flopping and flapping, this line of dancers on the edge of the desert lip-synching to Beyoncé, and my face is lobster red, I’ve been buried up to my chin in the sand for hours, every once in a while one of the dancers will break from her routine to come over and give me a squirt and splash of chartreuse citrus Gatorade and I find myself praying for an earthquake to free me before the worms start mistaking my flesh for just more dirt, and thank Jesus the sun is starting to sink, the sky is turning fluorescent orange the shadows are fresh shiner purple I watch as the tallest of the dancers squats and pisses into the sand just a few feet from my face, snarling at me as she does so and a thousand paper parachutes fall right on cue at the stroke of dusk and the wind machine scatters them across the barren landscape and a flatbed truck pulls up and the girls stop dancing and load up all the gear the cameras the speakers the wind machine the wardrobe cases and then they jump in themselves and speed off in a cloud of dust leaving me buried there, making sure to keep my mouth shut so as not to present a warm place to hide for any chilly tarantulas or scorpions

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