The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

A voice trilled through the dressing room curtain: “Do you need anything? Another size?” “I need fresh eyes to admire this ass of a vixen,” I said, pulling the curtain aside with a flourish.

Everett, she put her hands over her ears and let out a bloodcurdling scream that caused a passing barista to drop a mug, which shattered, spraying hot coffee all over the patio stones.

And the most horrible thing is, though Brant Bitterbrush has crushed my heart and my artistic drive, I miss him still.

“Getting back together with an ex-boyfriend is like eating your own vomit.”

“Look, I’m sorry your ex was a dickhead. Really sorry. And I’m sad he stole your artwork and is using it to a hideous end. But I love you enough to cut you off from an ex-boyfriend shame spiral,” she said. “So I’m gonna talk about myself now.”

WOMEN WERE MADE TO RECEIVE. YOU ARE A VESSEL. PATRICK SHOULD BE GIVING TO YOU IN THE FORM OF TEXTS, PHONE CALLS, DATE REQUESTS, ETCETERA.”

“The fear of not being recognized is a petty fear because the artistic work done in anonymity is often the bravest and most worthy work.” I was crying by that point. I don’t know what had gotten into me. “No. My fear is that I won’t fucking do the work at all.”

There is not enough Klonopin in the world to take the edge off having your ex-boyfriend watch you get fingerbanged by some old Australian while the ex-boyfriend himself fingerbangs some other woman, all in a hotel convention ballroom full of… Well, I don’t have to tell you. You were there.

“I like your style, Topher,” I said. “Do you work with the planetary deity Mars by any chance?” “I’ve been making offerings to Mars every Tuesday for the past seventeen years.”