imagine you’re tapping the glass that seals the arctic gale in the freezer aisle of the corner cvs, choosing between the selection of frost-coated cakes and vegan-washed ice creams—what the hell do you bring to a casual get-together anyway when you haven’t even seen the hosts for half a year and don’t care to meet their new baby (it’s not as though with those genes little johnny will actually cure cancer, sorry)—and you just buy an ice cream cake because only a sociopath can hate on that which reminds you that dale will be there, probably with the new squeeze in tow and she’ll have some pilates instructor name like amber or marcia and wear one of those overpriced sleeveless funnel tops from the mall and secretly wish she had money for veneers and you’ll make some excuse about the cake turning lopsided and melty if you don’t get to the fridge to avoid having to make smalltalk with them, which is what they expected and you run and run and run, the bathroom sink absorbing all of the streaks of your mascara like an idealistic therapist, the toilet absorbing the weight, not the heavy awkwardness but of you, fully, the fullness that has fulled since finding solace in calories and saturation that have kept you warm, this buttery glow that remains and you inhale and exhale, the cheap febreze, the fresh ammonia and then slowly twist the knob again.
Mia Tong is an emerging writer and recent graduate of a master's degree in creative writing and literature. Her work appears in The South Shore Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, and The Weather Where You Are, printed by Ad Hoc Fiction. She is at work on her debut novel and other manuscripts.