by Kim Chinquee
The blinds were up, the heat pushing under curtains. She’d didn’t bring the prescription, though somewhere was vodka. Cheetos, popcorn, tacos. Her suitcase was open and her shoes were running. Broken and waiting, and the journal was also open. The shots went bang and bangbang. She turned off the TV, and looked through the peephole, finding nothing magnified. Black, though it could have been snow. It got quiet and she was alone. Her father was lonely. There was always nothing to say but it used to be screaming. It stuck. She wanted to: Get out! The door froze with the wind. It blew, and she pushed, banging it hip.