Living
By Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri
My older sister Nan and I pitch a tent in our living room. Lights killed, not by choice, door echoing with knocks and notices, we devour words, six feet apart.
We read not of kings and princes, but of runaway parents and teens alone in the world. We devour stories of drinking and drugs, compare ourselves on misery indexes, and hold onto small things, our laughter, Mom’s dirty jokes, even the scent of onions wafting from the fridge.
When we’re done, we say enough to six feet and move very, very close. The tent threatens to give and footsteps shift outside. We hold on. Another knock rises.
THE END