corn hole

An outdoor event at which I am uncomfortable. Decide. Decent middle-sized backyard, wooden fence that is decaying wraps itself around the back half of the property. It is summer and overcast. There is country music mixed in with glam bands, harkening back to the 1980s which these men are nostalgic for. Some fraternity reunion where all I can pay attention to and be entertained by is the way this can of beer begins to condensate on my hand, cold. I make a ring on my thigh and ignore voices and corn hole. I wish the sun would go down and dessert would just come out already, so I can leave yet say I came and stayed. Bean bags miss the opening and splunk on the wood. The line is just past the big tree. With my back turned, I can hear the back screen door open and shut, and smell the cheeseburgers and hot dogs on the grill. I satiate myself with chips and salsa for now. The salsa is mild, weak, and regrettably not spicy. Just sweet tomato, garlic, and onion. The chips are merely a crunchy, salty distraction. Sips turn into gulps, where like a snake I, too must take time to swallow, before getting another drink and sedating myself into complacency. I wish for rain, or a friend. I’m not sure which I want more. I feel out of place and awkward. I am alone at this table. And like quicksand I am stuck here. More corn hole and cheers from the far end of the yard. The tiki torches have been lit, the sun has started to go down fully. With great effort, I make my way to the cooler to get another beer. I think about how terrible these men are at this game as I crack it open, sip and place my empty can in the recycling bin. The air starts to chill and reach for my sweatshirt I brought, that hangs on the back of my chair. It is blue and warm and oversized.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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