Don’t Say You’ll Play the Game If You Don’t Know the Rules

by David Centorbi

After five Jameson shots, it was easy to fall

down the stairs when Jaime

pushed me.

“Was the bitch remark worth it?”

I had to think for a bit. “Well, I guess as a way of testing God’s

gravity, yeah it was.”

She stomped her foot. “Dick.”

And walked away.

I got up off the floor. I stood there at the bottom

of the stairs for a bit trying

to process what happened. It felt like my ankle was twisted,

but I shook it off, and as I carefully

put my foot down on the bottom step, I heard a click.

I looked up the stairs.

Jamie had my Glock 9.

She was pointing it at me, a blunt

hanging from her newly painted red lips.

She had on a black tank top and the purple

satin panties I bought her for Christmas.

“Do ya wanna play Burroughs?” she asked.

Trying to be tough I replied, “Sure, but you gotta get the glass.”

Which I didn't see she already had

until she tossed it to me. Then pointed the gun.

I dove to the right behind the wall.

She opened fire. I heard the glass

shatter and crackle

down onto the stairs.

“Shit, I did that wrong. You were supposed to put it on your head,

and then I was supposed to kill ya.”

I leaned against the wall, wanting

to say a whole lot of things you shouldn’t

say to someone who’s holding a gun.

“William, William, you there?” she asked.

 I went with cliche. “Listen, God damn it, I’m sorry.”

I didn’t hear anything, so I peered

around the corner—

Haloed in Glock-smoke, at the top of the stairs,

she replied, “Un-Huh.  Now, get your broke,

bitch ass up here,

and let’s fuck.”

David Calogero Centorbi is a writer that in the 90s earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Arizona. Now, he is writing and working in Detroit, MI.

Published work in Anti-Heroin Chic, The Daily Drunk, Drunk Monkeys, Horror Sleaze Trash, Schuylkill Valley Journal-Dispatches, and Tiny Molecules. He is also a regular monthly contributor at Versification.

He can be found here on Twitter: @DavidCaCentorbi.