Catherine House

by Elisabeth Thomas

Slutty, glittery men and women, their eyes glassy with drugs and sex, laughed as they kissed each other. Lipstick smeared across their faces. They danced until they blurred.

The tuba player wasn’t a lunatic. He was perfectly normal. He probably lived in a condo in Scranton, maybe, or Allentown, one with wall-to-wall carpeting and vertical blinds. He bought his toothpaste and dish soap at a drugstore. He had a pet dog, a mutt, and a girlfriend, maybe. He took her to breakfast at Denny’s. She ordered a Belgian waffle with bacon. He got the Grand Slam.