Joe brings us sandwiches of cured ham on Portuguese bread. He takes us for a cruise at lunch hour in his mom’s green Grand Am. He tells us he just likes the way the losers watch him as he slows down by smoker’s corner—two hot chicks in the front seat eating blue plums he snuck fresh outta the fridge just a half hour before picking us up. Joe’s twenty and has dark hair across his forearms. I’ve studied it carefully as he places his veiny hand on your thigh as he drives the car. Hair like that means business. Hair like that is up front and coarse for a reason. Joe is all there. He’d bring you flowers if you just mentioned it one day. You don’t care about Joe because you’re not thinking of going away. I don’t care for Joe either because—because. I just like Joe ‘cause he’s so New York. He says sheer hose with strap heels are what’s missing from this town and I agree. He appreciates my acid mouth, says …

Dread comes in as my daddy slinks out the door. He sits at the table with me and my mom eating up all the long labored over resentments that have been stewing all day. With his belly full he settles in daddy’s beige and orange flowery lounge rocking chair. He lights up a fat cigar and knocks it on the side of the ashtray stand, ashes floating to the shag carpet. He turns on the tension pole floor lamps like he’ll be reading the TV Guide, but my mom yelling at me and pacing the livingroom-hall-diningroom-kitchen is a better show. He turns her tongue into a rasp and it grates and grates and he laughs and laughs, and in my mind I am going someplace else. I am in my mom’s closet with her pretty skirts and dresses swaying above me and I am playing Barbie. We are dancing to Queen because we are the champions and I’m gonna make Ken do what we want. Ken’s gonna stay home on a Saturday night and dress …