Sonya's so good that all the guys 

pick on her, so the evening's narrative goes. I've heard she wears 

yellow t-shirts each time to match her hair. Last time her tennis 

shoes got so dusty that she had to throw them out because there 

was no way on earth that they could be white again. 

                  Trunks shrink like deflated accor-

dions, like melodramatic arguments after they've met face to 

face with someone's indifference. A baby cries and pouts 

while her mother is trying to scoop more Velveta on to her 

nacho. The father is strung out on something, someone in 

back of us says. A teenager with severe acne turns around 

and fires a dart full of cavities into my gaze. We give in to the 

pleasure of destruction for the sheer sake of waste. What 

inside, the collision, the jerk on the nape that makes the 

driver wonder whether this one's it. Swallow me dust while 

the crowd cheers and claps its French fries away into the 

space between a nearby neon and the floodlights gathering 

an army of many sized moths.