By Karen Crawford

It takes a minute to adjust. Scrape of sawdust on the floor. Last night’s peanuts on the tables. Old man dank of cigarettes and beer. It’s been ages. We pretend not to notice the gray in our hair, but Lori’s bangs are still killer. She’s giving the dartboard hell while Amy tilts her head, flashing a midnight smile. Cackling when I remind her it’s mid-afternoon. And although we’re the only ones here, I grab a seat by the door. Because I’d always been the one to clock the exits.

Lori suggests tequila. It feels good. The burn in our throats. Embers in our eyes. Amy borrows my phone to Google old boyfriends. Her husband keeps calling. When she sends him to voicemail, we giggle like teens. I miss this, I don’t say. I miss a lot of things.

The geri-bartender puts on music: ‘What I Like About You.’ Lori and Amy jump up, pull me to my feet, and scream. You know what happens to friends that don’t dance, don’t you? They stay home!

Later, we’ll squint into the sun. Follow the cracks on the sidewalk to pick up Lori’s kid from therapeutic school. Pop mints into our mouths before we say goodbye. 

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Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. Her work has been included in National Flash Fiction Day Anthology 2024, Flash Boulevard, Okay Donkey, Five South, Bending Genres, and elsewhere. She is a multi-Pushcart, Best Microfiction and Best of the Net nominee. You can find her on X @KarenCrawford_ and Bluesky @karenc.bsky.social