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July 15, 2013 Fiction


Ian Sanquist

Drought photo

One summer, under the streetlamps, the storm clouds, our friend on life support, a tube in his ass, a month without rain, we walk under streetlamps, under a sky full of black clouds, choking on exhaust, waiting for the storm to break loose, looking for a café—they remember Alex at the Uptown, kicked him out last time—Richard lights a cigarette, the streetlamps are buzzing, Jake is in the hospital, no one’s getting any sleep, the air is thick, the storm bulges overhead, all the days are slow and ashen, Stephanie and I, in a park, not talking, waiting for the rain, our friend Jake is in the hospital on life support, his parents can’t remember how to blink, Stephanie says it’s going to rain, the concrete is warm, the black clouds churn in the sky, Jake’s head is shaved, our footsteps pound under streetlamps, Stephanie and I are in a car, not talking, she chews her lip, in the afternoon we go to the hospital, we nod our heads, we look out over the city, it’s been dry for a month, Alex is on a hit of acid, he presses his hands to his face, we’re looking for a café, we’re spraypainting walls, windows, alleys, trashcans, it’s been a dry month, we’re scrawling our marks in the dust, Stephanie is on her back, her eyes half-closed, she bites her lip, we’re in a car, her legs are open, we meet again, under streetlamps, the sky is black, full of clouds, full of water.

image: Caleb Curtiss