Razorblade Tears

by S.A. Cosby

He had the self-assurance of most mediocre men. They told themselves the world was their oyster but never realized their oyster had turned rancid a long time ago.

“I … I don’t know. I mean he was my son. Our son. But what he was doing was wrong. I have to believe that. Because if I don’t, then everything I did was a mistake,” Christine said. She put her fist to her mouth and moaned. “It was a mistake, Chrissy. We both made a lot of mistakes with him. He wasn’t abhorrent. He wasn’t sacrilegious. He was just Derek. That should’ve been enough for both of us,” Buddy Lee said. He said it with a tenderness he didn’t think himself capable of anymore. At least not with her.

“I never put my hands on you. Never.” “No, you didn’t. But you broke my uncle’s jaw.” “He called me a piece of white trash, then he spit on me. What was I supposed to do? Give him a deep-tissue massage and burn incense?”

If I’m correct, I think your husband threatened to put me so far down in a cell I’d have to get on a stepladder to kiss the devil’s ass,”

“I’m as careful as a long-tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Ike said.