The Girl Who Lived Under My Table

by May Helena Plumb

She still didn't own a cellphone, because they give you brain cancer. This was mildly inconvenient when she had to cancel her oncologist appointment (she had lung cancer because she smoked) to go to a séance with her new girlfriend. So she sent the office an email, hopped in a broken down pickup with a pile of beautiful lesbians, and drove to Boston singing love ballads and drinking hard cider. She sat down in the smoky room, closed her eyes against the soft glow of the candles, and groped for her girlfriend's hand. The next day, the men from the institution dragged her out from under my kitchen table, told me not to worry, and took her away. I heaved a sign of relief because they hadn't caught me, and returned to poking my voodoo doll and ignoring the voices.


May Helena Plumb is tentatively a "writer." She smiles in a friendly manner at people on the street when she's not spying on them from behind her book.