by Ethan Blumhorst
Black eye espresso
Heading home from a meal with friends, I wish I had hearing aids so the duties could be abolished.
You were a drunk buffoon, you didn’t back my arguments, the way you ate was utterly disgusting.
Resembles her pillow talk.
After fifty years of verbal masochism I figure would be used to it.
While she continues berating me, I see an almost glowing path to the right of the bridge.
It feels essentially like being lifted by the arms of an angel until we strike the surface.
The cold water begins to fill the car; matching our hearts.
About the author
Ethan Blumhorst is a former carpenter, firefighter, and Airborne medic.
He has settled into the Illinois Ozarks where works as a therapist with
the Department of Veterans Affairs. He revels in the gift of language
and the stories from which we are able to tell.
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