My Drug Dealer's Girlfriend |
by Kevin Ridgeway

several days after he beat 
the marijuana smoke out 
of me, I looked into her 
bruised eyes over a grilled
cheese we split at Clifton's
downtown and agreed to
let her borrow money for
a Greyhound ticket.

we had been flirtatious
behind his back.  she 
revealed her bra to me in 
paparazzi flashes when she 
got drunk, and I showed her 
my man tits and she helped 
me try the bra on, which made 
him wonder what we were 
both laughing at.

weeks later, I received a 
postcard she had filled out
in sloppy cursive from her
grandmother's house in
Lincoln, Nebraska.  she
said she'd miss me and 
asked for the name of a 
Neil Young album I always 
played for her, having left a
kiss made of crimson lipstick 
in the margin underneath 
my misspelled name.

I stayed behind in that drug 
den the three of us inhabited:
just me and Neil wailing from
the grooves of that old vinyl 
record, trapped there with our
lonely boy choir of a heartbreaking 
song on parallel roads bound for 
the same no where.

Kevin Ridgeway is from Southern California, where he lives and writes.  Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Chiron Review, Re)verb, LUMMOX, San Pedro River Review, the Chaffey Review, Right Hand Pointing, Bicycle Review. American Mustard and The Mas Tequila Review.  His latest chapbooks are On the Burning Shore (Arroyo Seco Press, 2014) and Riding Off Into That Strange Technicolor Sunset (Weekly Weird Monthly, 2015).