Bananapants

by Penny Reid

“Where’s that apron of apathy I bought you for Christmas? How about the insoles of indifference for your birthday, huh? What’s with this cardigan of curiosity? Take it off, it’s not your color.”

This wasn’t me overthinking and making things complicated. This was me ensuring she didn’t overthink or assume I wanted to make things complicated. Not that she would. I mean, she might. But, then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

“Look at that guy. Seriously, look at him. Are you looking?” “Yes,” Grace answered flatly. “I’m looking.” “If bad, why so sexy?”

Well, well, well. My therapist and I were going to have a very full hour next week.

I felt like throwing up. And I would!

How does one become a goon? Did he pay taxes?

I cut Ava out specifically because I needed to find a reason within myself to stay in the game with the cards I’d been dealt. I couldn’t make someone else the reason I lived, or didn’t.”

But being told something is true and accepting it as truth are separated by a mountain, one I was still in the process of climbing.

My imagination took this morsel of gossip and attempted to sprint off with it to all sorts of great destinations. I forcefully shut that shit down.

“Everyone is upset about the lack of dragons, gorgeous. We don’t talk about it like you do.” “Why do you think that is?” I glanced at him. “Why don’t more people openly discuss their dissatisfaction with the lack of dragons?”

“Well, you'll tell me if you feel like it's important. Right?” I nodded. “I will.” I would not tell my mother about this.

“She’s a real handful.” “Didn’t she try to set you on fire once?”

Butterflies are fleeting and yet their short lifespan doesn’t make them any less beautiful.

“I love you,” he said. Imma gonna kill him!

“It’s like Dungeons and Dragons. Don’t commit to playing until you know how the mail system works.”

“It’s all smoke and mirrors and pretending, honey,” she went on. “Everyone is in various stages of falling apart. All the time.”

The sight of the onion made me brave. If either of us cried, the onion would be a good scape goat.

That’s a fact. And when it’s a fact, it’s impossible to argue with. I think Abraham Lincon said that once. In a speech. Before he died of dysentery, wasn’t it?” “He did not say that and you know he was assassinated.”

“That mo—” I stopped myself. I couldn’t call him a motherfucker. It felt wrong. Partially because he was, in fact, fucking my mother. And partially because I didn’t want to be reminded that my parents did . . . that. Ever.