Matthew Koskowski
Glory
Glory is standing in the corner alone, and Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" comes on the stereo. There's no reason that song should be playing at this party. It must be a mistake. Or a sign. I don't care. I tuck my hair behind my ear and walk over to Glory.
Glory has this thing when she smiles where one of her teeth -- her eye tooth, I think it's called -- is a little too skinny, so there's a gap between the teeth on either side of it. On anyone else, I would think this is ugly, but on her, it's the fault that highlights the rest of her face's perfection. I see it now as she looks up from her phone and smiles her recognition at me. I want to swoon like an old Southern belle, but I don't.
When I reach her, I affect a bad Southern accent and say something about how it's too hot in this cramped little apartment, and something about moonshine and a case of the vapors, and my mouth just goes and goes independent of my brain, and I want to cringe, but I don't, and instead I just die a little inside. Glory smiles, polite and confused. She says, sure, and throws in a courtesy laugh like the unread appendix at the end of a book.