Shipped

by Angie Hockman

break off like a shard of glass.

snort like a politician doing a line of coke off a prostitute’s cleavage.

“Shitsicles,”

Pushing up the brim of her floppy sun hat, Sharon clucks. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but that man is a whole treat. Or is it a meal? What do kids say these days?” “Snack. He’s a whole snack.”

I settle for kicking a mound of sand. The wind catches it, and the scattered sand pelts me in the face. “Ack,” I splutter.