A whole thing of pasta salad

This piece will appear in my forthcoming book We Had It Coming available to order now.

A whole thing of pasta salad in the heaviest ceramic bowl you’ve ever seen on a weak fold out table. The tinfoil half-on and a wooden spoon poking out.

Penne lemon olive oil red wine vinegar cherry tomatoes green pepper red onion cucumber kalamata olives.

Feta souring in the sun.

Flies broadcasting the coordinates.

A greasy paper plate with the light blue trim resting leftover hell-blackened burgers and dogs no one else as of yet has been shameless enough to poke their noses into.

Lemony bug spray sweat on the back of your neck.

A 64 oz bottle of Heinz ketchup standing like a sentry. One or two of the fancier mustards unopened.

No one is looking at you.

Eat it.

Eat it all you fat fuck.

Do it.

Your aunts and uncles are all so old. Your parents too. But that provides a kind of cover for you doesn’t it?

No one is going to notice if you eat the charcoal meat. Two of them even.

God the beers in the cooler look ice cold. Who would it hurt to drink three to five of them right now?

You could just say you were tired if anyone asked.

Had had a long week.

You’re invisible after all. Not old enough that the kids have come to the realization that they better ask you questions about your life for the first time ever before it’s too late and not young enough that everything you do is being recorded at all times. So that none of it will ever be forgotten.

Across the yard all of the children were zooming around like low altitude dog-fighting airplanes.

Squealing without fear. Fearful of the wrong things rather.