by Karen Vejar
Incidentally, hearts and beer bellies swelled together in perfect unison. Everyone went on with what they did best, what they did worse, what they did. Of course time wouldn't be so rude as to leave them empty handed, no sir, he granted them each with their very own sense of detachment. Detached from taste, feeling, satisfaction, from each other. The blow from a stinging cold shoulder softened through recurrence. A bellow of anger passed swiftly by a mutter of indifference with ease; had they been people walking past each other on a boulevard, no friendly grin or even a tip of a hat would have been exchanged.
Karen Vejar writes from a small block of apartments alongside the West Coast.