From Chicago to Cadillac I rode in the stiff front seat of the red church van. Everyone fought over the red van. It was newer, cleaner, and transported only the coolest senior high church kids, and PR.
I read my Neon Bible, and ate candy and broke my whoopee cushion. PR would often interrupt my reading but eventually the boy killed the preacher and rode the train into a sunset. Having completed both books I brought on the trip, I shimmied and wriggled across three rows of gray bench seats and collapsed wheezing in Libby and Sarah’s thigh shelves.
I regained consciousness as the girls and I were apparently about to enjoy some little girl games. I often wonder why my life would be like if the predictions of seventeen-year-old girls rang true.
When I’ve had my twenty-eighth birthday, I will have already been married for ten months. Each morning I will stretch my arms above the headboard and lean to my left and kiss my much older wife. Her first husband died two years ago, and she lost the “Decision 2008” to a Clinton. That winter I swept her off her feet and we courted for a year, traveling the world before marriage.
We bought a penthouse overlooking Madrid and three Spanish orphans, me and my wife Elizabeth Dole Sobolewski. On my days off from the subway conducting job, I play my mandolin and taste my wife’s kiss, hear my wife’s political speeches, touch my wife’s back, smell my wife’s love, and then, watch my wife die.
I punched Libby’s arm and crumpled the paper with my future projected so accurately. Girls don’t play fair.
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