Kiss & Breakup
Stories by Meredith DiMenna, Olga Zilberbourg, Sara Dobie Bauer, Paul Florez, and Christopher Green; with performances from Michaela Morton, Alexandra Gray, Hannah Seusy, Michael Petrocelli, and Seth James. Hosted by Andrew Lloyd-Jones at KGB Bar, NYC on Wednesday, 1st April 2015.
As the judge read the terms of their agreement, Suzanne could tell by their shoulders that they hoped the rest of the people in courtroom were impressed with how reasonable it all was. Did everyone see how civil, even kind, was their treatment toward one another? They both seemed extremely proud of themselves, Suzanne thought, watching from the back of the room.
The night after her first date with Travis, Michelle dreamt of a house made of glass. The house stood deep in a forest, and the Dutch architect who designed it—somebody Michelle knew by reputation—imagined the woods would provide occupants with privacy while the transparent walls reinforce their connection to the natural environment.
October: this used to be my favorite month in Ohio. There’s an orange, glowing Jack-o-Lantern across the street from the funeral home. In the darkness, it frowns at me; I wonder if this is someone’s idea of a joke.
I shouldn’t be out here. I should be inside, consoling my mother—my role since I passed my “dark years,” when I wore black hair and Kurt Cobain tees. Now, I am solid. I am fine.
I smile at the Jack-o-Lantern, but on my face, the smile feels tight.
The nor’easter hit Manhattan earlier than expected. I was standing outside the Blind Barber smoking my lucky cigarette watching two girls across the street get their lezzie on when the wind began to howl. If I was straight, I’d probably get a boner over their small hands cupping their equally small breasts, but since I’m not I just fling my cigarette into the air and shout, “Get a room!”
It was only an hour before the game when Ainsley clopped into the doorway from the living room, half-dressed in her little league uniform and cleats, and announced her decision to break up with her boyfriend that afternoon. It was a perfunctory statement, delivered with the same bland matter-of-factness normally deployed in statements of mild hunger or the desire to watch TV. Really, there would have been nothing especially remarkable about it at all were it not for the circumstances: one, that her father Russell hadn't been aware until that moment that she even had a boyfriend in the first place; two—and this was the real killer—that she was nine years old.