Vicki Cloutier

Coco

Thirteen years ago I was 23 and leaving yet another bad relationship. I had been living in a basement apartment, partying too much, and putting too little of effort into anything of substance. I was lost. I had attended teacher’s college because I couldn’t figure out what else there was to do with a degree in English. I was still waitressing in a town too small for the egos it held with people too small to accept anything beyond their narrative. I had lived there for a year; eight months of which I was a twenty hour bus ride away, “learning.” I supply taught occasionally, when I felt like it and when the bank account was getting low.