I Wrote a Story
Francisco Delgado

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 process.
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)

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