[Santa Monica Pier. An entire funnel cake is wedged between the wooden slats: dough pressed deep into the split grooves, an echo of footsteps visible through a thick layer of powdered sugar. A seagull stabs at a corndog while two friends sit together. The friends blink against the glare on the water. One is remembering; one is listening.]
He says, ‘I remember the sound of grass piercing through the blanket and although it was softer than, say, straw it was still much sharper than any blanket should be. I didn’t have anything else in the car and I didn’t want to do it in the backseat. Hey, can you pass that? And it was the middle of the day. Thanks. The grass left small impressions on her knees and palms and it made me feel sort of disgusted, you know? Like maybe her skin would stay that way, speckled with dents and shallow holes. Then I pulled a piece of grass from her hair and ran it over her bottom lip knowing that it would tickle, that she would be excited but also slightly petulant, you know the way they can be, and I watched the white of her teeth tug at her mouth, green stained hands resting on my chest, changing everything. You know that line from The Virgin Suicides, man? I was her James Franco, I fucking swear.’
You can read the rest of ‘A Stone Fox’ here.