The Staircase. Runner-Up in Absurdist Awakening Challenge.
It was your idea to split a seafood boil at the wharf.
One of those blistering Septembers, a plastic bag full of cooked ocean critter carcasses sprawled across my lap, oil dripping onto my new Reef's, first-degree burns blooming on my thighs, but I didn't dare complain because twice you stabbed your fork super close to my crotch and I was cautiously optimistic that it was deliberate. There was a Cirque du Soleil flyer running practice drills in my stomach. I ate the small half of a boiled potato, while you tore apart and slurped the flesh out of each scrawny crab leg, one-by-one. You were chatty, even with your mouth full. There was too much eye contact.
