My girlfriend reads me short stories when I’m napping. She picks authors I detest, those who should have their hands bound.
My sister won’t fly home. She has kids, she says. Loud ones. Yeah, I tell her, I get it. I never hear them yelling. Or asking to say hi.
When I call and say “I’ll miss you,” my mother says, “Can you hear me shrugging?”
When I got busted for the hit-and-run, Dad smacked Mom with a pillow. The next day, he placed himself under house arrest.
Instead of prison, I will walk the Napau Crater. The crunch of black lava may help me forget an old man, his ridiculously turquoise bicycle.