by Greg Dybec
We prance down gray New England streets not like kings, but jesters; convulsed in chuckles and sweet fortuitous contact. We’re elastic beings, snapping off each other’s bodies in mid-drunken stride and pulling back together for more. You’re heavenly, I tell her. We’re in costume, she replies. I tell her that my place is close, and that as different as we may not realize we are, I’m up for new beginnings. Nude beginnings, she says, as we rubber band down the street.
Greg Dybec has work appearing or forthcoming in Dogzplot, 6S: The Green Bike Stories, Fiction Collective, and others. Unfortunately his favorite number is seven, but that’s all starting to change now.