Wednesday

Monica drew portraits of the beautiful women in her mind's eye. She framed them in stained cosmos, beads in their hair and neon color on their lips, blotchy fushcia complexions and narrow gold eyes. She named them all Samantha,






but an hour ago, she blew smoke against the plush rippling ceiling of Jake's car.  It bubbled and dispersed gray. A conversation was lost beneath the music. Dylan wouldn't stop talking. Monica tipped her head back and pressed her hand against the window, laughing when everyone else did,






so she was out of words when she came home. Her mother wore a face of glittering makeup, her hair stood and then curled itself into patterns like the crawling shadows on the walls, the mirrors which caught dimensional rips and sewed them closed with gold fishing wire. "Monica?"







"I'm going to bed." All the lights drained from behind her eyelids. Samantha kissed her good night, then closed the bedroom door behind her.