Shmo/Robert C. Jackson
I’m at a party and again, it’s at Sarah’s apartment. By this time I’ve learned on the most part to stop chugging punch before eating so I’m all good. It’s winter and I’m adding my vintage moth eaten red pea coat to the top of the pile growing on Sarah’s bed. Inches from the peak of this mountain of jackets, lying on the bed, is George. It’s been over a year since that night when I threw up. Since then I had moved on, released George from my mind. I had a wildly romantic nine month fling with Ludo, a Russian romantic and often gotten together with my on and off again boyfriend, Cal. Let’s just say, I was busy with my own shit. But I see George and catch a flash of Animal Architects sitting on my shelf. The only problem is George’s arms are pinned down up above his head by the woman straddling him - slender, tall, blonde and thankfully wearing a loud blue taffeta dress. Her face is up close to his and they are both laughing. Neither of them notice me walking out.
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