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boba

But you call it a ‘bubble tea’ on a good day and on worse ones ‘that tea with the bubbles in it.’ Only you aren’t talking about it because you don’t tell anyone about this post-work errand.

Because you are in your fucking Prius, see?

And sure, it’s on your way home from work, you plead with yourself,  you always have had such a thin skinned conscience.

The boba tea errand is two blocks past your left turn home but you drive one of those high efficiency cars, one of those “green” fucking Prius’, remember?

So, you’re fine because your carbon footprint, your personal hole in the ozone is smaller than your asshole.

Don’t get me started on how tight your asshole is though.

It’s not loose by any means.

You don’t even push, the fear of hemorrhoids runs rampant on that one side of your family you never talk about. But it’s in your genes, and one thing you have never argued about,
or,
one of the many things you never argued about is genetics. No point. You have never been good with blood.

But you get this big cup in an exotic color and flavor like lychee or taro or something really goddamn FOREIGN because you aren’t wild. And having to trip over vowels and syllables is enough to release an incredible amount of adrenaline into your system.

Remember you are the kind of person who has white thighs.

Thighs so white they appear a sickly hue of green under florescent lighting.  The kind of guy that doesn’t worry about tan lines, those baby white thighs, because you never take vacations. Something about how they roll over and you started thinking of what that math equation would like at the end of your life and all that addition and the sum of it all made you think it would look really nice someday. That number that means nothing.

Plus, you don’t need a vacation because you have a pair of Dockers for every goddamn day of the week and that sleek little fucking Prius that gets you home in time for a lukewarm dinner with your accidentally racist wife.

You get home with just enough time after dinner to have sex in your California King bed, a bed so big for your petite frames that you never have to make contact under the sheets once it’s all over. You even have enough time for a little foreplay: ten full and pure minutes of removing all the ornamental pillows that take up half the bed. After all the pillows are neatly arranged on the floor, your erection is at a full-blown twenty percent and you have sex with your Hanes on to make going to bed easier, so you can keep the lights off after.

Because you have sex with the lights off so you don’t have to notice the changes that happen when you’re clothes have been on for all those years.

But RIGHT NOW, right here, you are holding this really fucking wacky drink and a fat ass straw is parting your lips and you’re sucking all those tapioca pearls into your mouth where you roll them around in between your cheeks and tongue before swallowing. You have your flashers on because your super fucking smart Prius is blocking an alley but you have to finish this bubble tea right here, before going home because your wife has always called anyone of Asian descent a ‘chink’ and it’s one of those things that was never worth your breath. It was one of those things that you buried, a layer of feeling too heavy to put on at the end of the day, or in the morning.

When it happened the first time. When it happened every time there was a reason to use it. There seemed to be an impossible amount of reasons. It was one of those things.

Like, when your wedding band went missing from your finger and she never asked so you never replaced it. And, when one night, you became impossibly paranoid by the lack of a promise of permanency around your index finger, you drew a new one on with a gold sharpie marker. When she saw it later that evening she laughed this hollow thing, like a colony of bats were flying out of her throat rattling her lungs on their way out.

So, the boba tea thing was like that. You brought one home for her years ago but she recognized what culture it stemmed from and threw it in the garbage, not before using that choice word. (CHINK). She still had the sweetest eyes on when she said it too.

She always has had sweet eyes.

And you are illegally parked across the street from where I am standing and you are really having a good fucking time and there is nothing wrong with doing something no one knows about. That’s the thing I wanted to get at when I Saw You.

Lillian Henehan is writer of poetry, prose, and garbage living in Chicago, IL. She graduated from Columbia College with a BFA in Fiction Writing. Her work has been featured on Metazen.

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