A Dreamcast controller in my hands, Crazy Taxi songs blaring from the mono speaker CRT, your head in my lap, your body sprawled across our orange fur sofa.
I run fingers through freshly dyed hair, as you sleep, wondering if the Orange Julius in the fridge, saved from a trip to the mall food court has gone bad?
I check my wallet to see the twenty dollar bill is still there. We can afford a trip to the comic book store today, maybe have enough left over for a few tacos and pbrs, and catch the punk band playing passion for a two dollar cover.
You shift and the weight release makes my legs tingle, numb from countless hours of staring at this screen, easy passing of time for someone with no real place to belong.
Late at night we play Uno, you burning incense that fills the air with youth, as the lava lamp barely holds on, potent for a house fire, as we dream that the day will never come, that we stop spinning songs on our thrift store record player, that we don’t have to become our parents.
A wish to not become people with a lack of vision for anything so wonderful as this tiny apartment, and your head resting on my lap, and twenty dollars taking us out on the town.
Shawn Scott Smith’s work has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Blood+Honey, Burial Magazine, Be About It Press, Dodo Eraser, Some Words, and Hawkeye Magazine. He serves as the editor of Mucky Mondays.