Three Stories by Robert Scotellaro
Erasure
Janelle still had her ex pimp’s name, over a smoking gun tattoo, peeking out of her blouse. Property of “Stinger.” She had been out of the life for years. Many states away. Living in her brother’s basement. Writing country songs she sang at the Bottom Rung. With a beer at her feet she lifted often. The bartender’s name was Rusty. But he wasn’t. She didn’t know which of his lava lamps she liked best. He never asked about her tattoos. One night they went back and forth like kids. “Bet you can’t”/”Bet I can…” “Holy-goddamn-god-almighty,” he said, when she did.
Maybe So
Ben likes saying, “What a revoltin’ development this is,” when Claire says something off-putting. From an old TV show he saw once. It annoys Claire, so he stops himself midway. They’re in the Statue of Liberty. He thinks to mention how good it feels being inside this great lady. Means in the best way. But doesn’t. When they first met she told him he looked like a biker-on-a-moped kind of guy. They gaze out from the crown. Heads in the clouds. He wonders what the torch might be like. The pinnacle. A metaphor that didn’t burn perhaps. Or maybe did.
Bad Hotel
The cab driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror as our lips parted. Lowering, when my eyes were added.
Too much to drink. The hotel ceiling fan spinning the scarf you tossed up there. It was red and green. And it wasn’t even Christmas. Just felt like it.
Watching TV, after. A politician. A lot of double-talk. You shook your head. Said, “What does it matter if the devil paints his kitchen white?”
On the way back, you told me your husband’s hands were softer than my own.
In the light rain, our taxi veered around a mattress in the road.
Damn but these are good flash. Any chance I can republish them in my zine Serving House Journal? Please advise.
Thanks, Duff