The horse has a barbecue and that hot pegasus from down the street comes, but she’s vegan and some idiot put mayo in the macaroni salad so she stays for a polite amount of time and then goes home. All month he’s been planning, casually dropping information about the party, Oh, I’m just on my way to pick up some more briquets for Sunday, you should drop by, bring your kids.
She does not bring her kids, which he had taken as a good sign, she came alone, she came alone until the fucking macaroni salad. He wishes suddenly that he were the kind of sensitive horse who always keeps a batch of quinoa medley in the fridge, just in case. Oh, it’s no trouble. Let me get you a clean serving utensil. And they’d start start talking about the nasty business of factory farming, and the way eating meat makes you feel spiritually heavy, and soon they’d be alone with her cloudy wings folding around him. Instead he’s jerking off in the bathroom, remembering how her nostrils flared with not a little disdain, her breath hot and pink in his face as he flogs himself, I’m vegan, I’m vegan, I’m vegan.
Elizabeth Hutchinson is a poet and gardner living in Salem, MA, She mostly wears sweatpants. She is in the midst of a deep depression.