Drywall

We tore down the drywall. Parker lit a cigarette absently in that way you could drive somewhere yet have no recollection of ever arriving. He smoked it. We stood around our work and years later new drywall still hadn’t gone up and Parker quit smoking on seven separate occasions until my mind had to grapple with his wife becoming a widow. I spoke to her after, just once, before we disappeared and they tore down the building without ever putting up new drywall. Then Parker stopped existing altogether.

Michael Prihoda is a writer, editor, and teacher from Indianapolis, IN. He is the editor of the literary magazine and small press After the Pause. Publications of poetry, flash fiction, and art have appeared in Potluck, Rasasvada, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Spelk Fiction, among other locales. He is also the author of two chapbooks and five poetry collections, the most recent of which is The First Breath You Take After You Give Up (Weasel Press, 2016).