Oh, So He Gets To Have Extra Fries?

Remembrance of things past — the bad date with the midday casino
and said date losing five hundred bucks in poker so no lunch :). The one

with the Burger King™ paper crown sogging in the rain he wouldn’t let 
go. The one with the cemetery picnic and I tumbled into a mausoleum 

and interrupted the woman heaving grief over the stone. 
The one last week with that Revolutionary War™ reenactor.

He wasn’t even wearing a period accurate uniform. Slim 
pickings. The Pavlov™ of it. The affirmations of a genie, 

where you rub something a little and some magic comes out —
                scratching the itch and you’ll get more than irritation.

                The attention. The dating app shock collar roulette. The 
                uh oh. The joy you get to even play the game. My next date 

                says he is exclusively wearing sweatpants. What the fuck does that mean.

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J.B. Kalf is currently stuck in the Alamo. Was co-editor of The Oakland Review. Has been published within Chaotic Merge Magazine, Sonder Midwest, Travesties!?, and is forthcoming in Quarter Press. Can be found at Instagram or Twitter @enchilada89.