You sit there and watch, and resist the urge to flinch, as the nurse pierces your skin and slides the slender silver needle in your vein, purplish and puckered after she flicked it to get it to wake, sleepy, like you, at this early hour, but you’re awake now too…

“Sometimes it’s a struggle just to keep my shit together,” Robert tells me over drinks on the patio, so matter-of-factly that he could be discussing the weather or last night’s scores, those games he watches, always some kind of balls on the TV. I know what he means, but I…

Billy works in a beige box, surrounded by other beige boxes, in a building full of beige boxes, and before this beige box, Billy worked in a different beige box in a different building full of beige boxes, and a different one before that, and one other one, and yet…

“Our ship will come in soon,” Sadie says as she sips her Bloody Mary through a plastic straw. “Mark my words — I can see it on the horizon.”

We are sitting at the sad bar down the street, at a high top table in the back against the rail…

Flirting with the bartender at that sad bar down the street, the stubborn stench of stale beer and cigarettes, linoleum floor absent random broken patches still sticky from the revelry of the night before, on a shiftless Sunday afternoon, the universe collectively hungover, or so it seems, sequestered from the…

Peter J. Stavros

Author and playwright in Louisville, Kentucky. www.peterjstavros.com.

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