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.