July 8, 2010

angie

by Justin Hyde

was my cubicle mate

when i was

a bank examiner.


she chewed her fingernails

and

gnawed her cuticles

until her fingers

were bright red

sores.


she told me

as a teenager

she'd gone from two-fifty

to one-fifty

by eating nothing but

unbuttered popcorn

and swallowing bottles

of phentermine.


while in chicago

for training

we ended up drunk

in her room.


this is why

i'll never get

a husband,

she said

lifting her shirt.


the skin was

shriveled

and hung down

below her waist.


i slid off

the edge of the bed

and slowly pulled her shirt

up and over

her shoulders.


don't underestimate

yourself,

i said

and unhooked her bra

and kissed

from waist

to neck.


you don't have to

feel sorry

for me,

she said.


i told her

it had nothing to do

with pity.


then i

ran her hands

over the buttons

of my shirt

and we


stopped

talking.


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