Sometimes I fill the coffee pot past the max line. Sometimes I get distracted reading the Bible and cast St. Paul as George Clooney to keep my attention. Sometimes I start and stop the adoption application for one more cat, the one with bad kidneys and eyes like a hostage negotiator. Sometimes I abandon my grocery cart in the bread aisle without so much as a note. Sometimes I tell people they are beacons without admitting this is my synonym for people. Sometimes I forget to look at the moon. Sometimes I smile at myself in the mirror while I ride my indoor bike. Sometimes I inhale as deep as deep can go in the bread aisle. Sometimes I mail Valentines in November with no return address. Sometimes I drink a fourth cup. Sometimes I read cookbooks to confirm that people still hide yeast in dough. Sometimes I advise strangers they are God’s favorite rutabagas. Sometimes I anoint myself in Confetti Cake body balm until I smell honest again. Sometimes I embezzle adverbs. Sometimes I am jealous of children. Sometimes I find drywall anchors I did not purchase and remember to pray for my ex-husband. Sometimes I apologize to God with so many words, I hear the hold music come on. Sometimes I wonder if some family orchard would let me write PR for their peaches. Sometimes I wonder how many neighbors are orphans. Sometimes I subpoena my fears to the same room at the same time to see if they are all the same person. Sometimes I need specific hugs. Sometimes I stand in the shower until I wrinkle red as an infant. Sometimes I buy the good bread.
Angela Townsend is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2024 winner of West Trade Review's 704 Prize for Flash Fiction. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Blackbird, Epiphany, Five Points, Indiana Review, and SmokeLong Quarterly, among others. She lives just outside Philadelphia.
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