#phlegmagics

his ‘oh!’ stretches on and wobbles as though it, like marion, is clumsily rounding a corner in search of—well, them. his informational oasis in a desert of non-employees, empty aisles, and a single flickering light near the restrooms that made him anxious to look at.

There were two scenarios that kept repeating in Nova’s head. One, fictional, the other, just happened a few minutes ago. The scenarios play out as the following...

First Scenario: Nova and her father Arturo are on the greenroom sofa about to share a spliff. She licks the glossy edges of the rolling paper and seals it, passing it along her dad to take the first hit. When Arturo takes a good puff of it he sticks his tongue out to cough. He asks if he set her up with potpourri. “No, it’s tobacco, weed, and lavender.” It was the lavender wasn’t it? He shakes his head and passes it back to her. The show was about to go in five minutes, and he was still in a cranky mood from last night’s performance. Which is why Nova found it odd that he just left to go perform without even getting high. So whatever, Nova doesn’t care, it’s all about the good times right? She leaves, she goes to enjoy the show, they’re just five cities away before this all the tour mayhem anyway. No more surprises.

Next scenario: Same thing. Nova rolls her dad a spliff. He hates it. He leaves, but the catalyst here is that Nova stays behind, smoking the joint down to the filter. Her eyes dart back and forth between her father’s things in the corner of the room and the door. In this split second, it was like she knew there was a Pandora’s box of problems in that bag. She gets up from the sofa and thinks, You’re not going to find anything. He’s clean. He’s promised. Before unzipping the bag, she holds her breath. Unzipping, exhale. She opens the bag and sticks her hand in there, rummaging through different loose sheets of paper, notebooks, and loose change; until she finds what looks like the tip of a pin and… 

                                                    ❛ FUCK! ❜ 

The needle slightly stuck the edge of her finger, she pulled away and-- turns out wasn’t a pin. It was her father’s needle. Nova never was one to keep her curiosity at bay. But this time, she wished the world would stop giving her the answers she’s not looking for. She rushes out of the greenroom, once getting outside the backstage area she pushes aside smelly men in black t-shirts spelling out “Ofrenda” in a hasty fashion. 

If you guessed the second scenario was reality, then you’re in luck.

There’s already a sort of protocol at these punk shows. There is never a first aid kit, but there is always alcohol. Nova is shouting over the bartender for vodka and receipts to seal her cut. When he returns with a shot, she pours a drop of the vodka out on her finger. 

                        ❛  CAN I GET SOME LIME IN THIS TOO? ❜ 

He tosses a lime at her and asks if it’s for the cut. She squeezes it in her drink and downs the shot. Slamming the glass right back down on the bar. 

         ‘ huh? ’ charlie has lobbed at dennis one of those questions so cold that it’s hot—so far from the point that it’s circled right back around to the point, cognizant in a way that makes dennis feel spotlit. ‘ no-no... no, charlie, that isn’t why i married maureen. i didn’t just ‘say yes’ to maureen. ’

the thought ‘why haven’t we had this conversation?’ forms itself about halfway in dennis’ head before he remembers how much of the rug he’d have to peel up to open the subject.