A Short Story

In a mid-night mind,
post Happy Hour,
Mason cooks a fiery sauce,
bubbling, simmering
as last explosions of light
flare-up on her window pane,
Sunrise Manor, Nevada.
Where’s that?
Oh, right.
On the outskirts,
Northeast, Las Vegas.
Laptop speakers cranked up,
Weeknd, "Call out my Name,"
Anyone Listening?
A nobody Coyote
yips in the distance.
Perhaps, he is all ears, but
such a dog
making dead-dusk
cayootering
wayward as
a sweaty suburban couple
in the desert
sans GPS.

She remembers that
nice kid in New Haven.
Muses, why couldn't I
love him?
Smart,
funny,
but,
that's right...
Not sexy enough.

Her concoction catches fire.
She watches it flame
to a crispy finish.
Shit.
Another boy,
another burnt dessert,
she shrugs
as a sepia fog
curls through the room
like a slow motion twister
or a departing soul
run out of
second chances
floating
to
Gehenna.