GOLDSCHLÄGER GIRL

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You toted Goldschläger around in your gold satin zipper purse. No one warned me about girls like you. Over a 2 a.m. plate of rosemary potatoes and scrambled mess, you leaned over to show me. Our heads bobbed and weaved. The gold flakes floated around, suspended in clear schnapps. My eyes must have been doing the same in my head as I stole a look down your shirt. You smiled. Then you turned over two chipped mugs on our table, glugged a bit into each and stowed the bottle away. I can still taste the tingle of cinnamon on my gums when I recall your face all these years later. Still smell the vomit from the morning after.


Curtis Ippolito is a writer from San Diego, California. In their spare time, they enjoy hiking, working out and gardening. Follow them on Twitter @curtis9980.

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