Dear Anon,

I noticed you sitting there smiling, smiling, smiling. It was nice at first, and then it sort of turned creepy because there wasn’t a reason to be smiling for so long. Your eyes seemed alive with a manic joy as if at any moment something wonderful and tragic was going to happen. I looked around uncomfortably wondering what it was that I was missing. Was it an inside joke or perhaps my fly was unzipped. I concluded that it was neither, but before I had a chance to ask you about your smile you got up and walked away without so much as a good day.

You swayed when you walked, your rear end plump like two ripe cantoloup jostling in a plastic sack. Exaggerated were your steps. My skin itched and my heart raced, but not with lust, but with fear. Something about you just wasn’t right.

I imagined you sliding into your convertible and then backing over me, laughing wildly, crazy like the Joker that Heath Ledger played so well. Despite the cars weight and my body being smashed to smithereens I would feel no pain, except the pain of your laughter pounding me repeatedly, reverberating through my head like a hammer against a monstrous gong.

I would ask myself what I did to deserve this, but I would never know, because you weren’t real. Just an image, just a story, just a fleeting moment of panicked hysteria induced by stress and too much caffeine and the need, the desperate need for a constant drama high.

9 replies on “Dear Anon,”

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