Nervously I stood on the porch.
A light blinks in a closed sign on the store connected to her house.
Her father’s gonna fuckin’ hate me. Worse yet, kill me. If I were him, I’d hate me, too.
Pregnant…she’s pregnant, and we’re still in high school.
I’d have smoked weed on my way over, but my dealer was closed for business.
She turns on the porch light to see me standing, shivering in the rain with a worthless apology.
I was wrong, and I shouldn’t have said what you thought I said in the way that you thought I said it, but I never meant it the way you took it.
She waves me in, zipping her sweater to her chin, letting me know her body is closed for business, at least for the night.
(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)