I Wrote a Story
I wrote a story about this time a kid at a keg party called me Chink
Eyes. My professor said it sounded forced, and my girlfriend wonders
why I let things like that get to me.
"It has less to do with that one incident," I explained, "than the
thousand others that came before it."
"So, what…" she replied. "You're going to write the same
story over and over again?"
We were friends first. I think she expected me to change to her liking
once we started dating.
We go to parties where I drink too much. We always leave together,
though, if only because she'd have no one to fight with otherwise.
On the walks home, usually after I've fallen a few steps behind, she
reprimands me for my 'embarrassing' behavior.
"Why do you always insist on acting so stupid, so drunk?" she asks.
I offer my apologies, trying my best not to speak over her in the
I wrote a story in which I saved my family from flying rabid zombies.
My professor said it lacked imagination, a sense of urgency. I asked my
girlfriend what she thought about it and she just shrugged.
I grabbed a beer, pre-gaming for a party we were hosting later on.
She looked at me from the kitchen table, quietly judging. I knew she
was trying to make me feel ashamed for drinking so early, but I refused
to play along. I slurped on my beer, purposefully absorbed in the
back-and-forth on Pardon the Interruption.
Her ex showed up. When we went out for pizza afterwards, he was
gracious enough to move so I could sit next to her. They started
talking about old friends from high school, finishing each other's old
stories, old jokes.
He made some quip about what low-caliber guys she's dated since him. He
said it in front of me, which was supposed to (according to her)
include me in their fun.
We parted ways a few blocks from campus. He hugged her goodbye, longer
than necessary. He went to shake my hand and I hit him.
He outweighed me by about twenty pounds and was at least half-a-foot
taller, all of which I felt when he slugged me back.
"Why don't you go after him?" I said, the right side of my face
swelling. "He obviously wants you to."
She asked why I insist on acting so stupid all the time, so drunk.
I countered, "Why don't you just go fuck him?"
I wrote a story about our hypothetical break-up. My professor said it
showed promise but relied too heavily on formula.
My girlfriend just asked why I saved some things only for my stories.
I'm now trying to write a poem for her.
Unfortunately, I'm not much of a poet.
Francisco Delgado is working towards an M.A. at Brooklyn College. He has stories in or coming from
Ghoti, Skive and others.
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/200911wrote.htm
Detail of painting on main page courtesy
of Brendan Garbee.
("Primary Circles," acrylics on paper)
w i g · l e a F