CREATIVE NON-FICTION | COMPETITION

Charred Tangerine Zest

Rinds, flesh, and annular lines

Photo by Darina Belonogova from Pexels

I inherited his sense of humor and invoked her ire before sampling wings.

The jokes weren’t funny. They dehydrated throats, stretched muscles, and pushed feet towards fire exits. Thinking is humanity's least favorite hobby.

In another life, I could have wanted the moments we shared a wall, leaving her to gleam in the spotlight. Relish hushed observations laced with laughs, and pretend we were two ghosts acquainted with sharing sacred space.

Five years later, I would lean forward, meandering into every room’s heart like I belonged, and package a practiced stand-up pattern as improvised.

I would no longer deliver deadpan lines with confidence, trembling on the inside in anticipation of a favorable reaction, letting myself split as if it was the first time someone didn’t like me. Or under the weight of each time.

Maybe all the watching benefited somehow. Maybe I’d simply had enough. Maybe I desired to demonstrate that her approval didn’t matter anymore.

When I held everyone's eyes. Like disinclined magnets toward Earth’s core.