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48 Concession Street, Apartment 202

What if trees became people in the curtains? It was something Judy was thinking about as she stood in the middle of her living room and stared at the sliding door which led to the balcony, the balcony she repeatedly thought about throwing herself off of.

Judy would throw herself off the balcony, if she could only be certain the drop would actually kill her. She was certain it would damage her, surely it would break most of her, but all of her? She couldn’t tell, so she watched the shadows of the trees dance around in the white curtains and thought about how much they looked like people.

Over the past few months she had thrown various objects over the metal rail separating her tiny frail body made of tiny frail bones from uncertain death, a microwave and a pile of dinner plates and a few lightbulbs and a hairdryer and finally the guinea pigs, which were the only things that hadn’t survived the fall. Judy wondered if she was more like a microwave or a guinea pig and settled on the microwave because of how it moaned and was generally unhealthy and unclean.

The clock on the wall was snoring towards 2:00 p.m., which Judy was sure meant something, only she couldn’t remember what, meaning it probably didn’t matter very much.

Her carpet was green like grass. Judy padded over to the side table beside her rocking chair. She was like a lion stalking her prey, slinking through the tall reeds of the African plains, the tree shadows on her wall waving around in the wind. She swept the stack of magazines and collection of pill bottles off the table and began to drag it back across the carpet towards the balcony.

It was a slow process. Judy was certain if she really was a lion it wouldn’t be taking so fucking long.

“Well, then again,” she said between heavy breaths, “I wouldn’t be here if I was a lion.”

Barring her teeth, fierce and powerful, Judy threw off her pink bathrobe and heaved the table onto the balcony. The sky was blue and bare, silent, horrible, and the breeze pushed her white hair behind her shoulders. The parking lot was empty except for a racoon sitting on the dumpster in the right corner.

“Hmm,” Judy said.

She looked at the table. It was about two feet by three feet. Two feet tall. The balcony’s rail came up to her stomach. This was her biggest feat yet.

The table was made of wood. Could she light it on fire, burn most of it, and then throw it over? No, she couldn’t possibly, that defeated the point of the experiment. Unless she chose to light herself on fire before throwing herself off? Well, perhaps she had better try lifting it first.

Summoning all her strength, Judy bent her knees, purple with veins, shockingly white. She wrapped her claws around the table, threw back her mane, and lifted. Over it went! She leaned over the rail panting, her pupils wide and black, her tongue hanging out of her mouth.

It didn’t break. Perfect. Whole. Not a scratch.

“Hmm,” she said again.

She stepped back from the rail and crossed her arms. She looked at the racoon. He looked at her.

There was an overturned bucket on the balcony. Lifting it up, she retrieved her bong and stash of weed from underneath. Then she sat on the bucket and smoked, her bong glittering like a sceptre in the afternoon light. It was pink like her bathrobe. She sucked in the sun and it dripped down her chin like juice from a steak. She watched the racoon. The racoon watched her.

“I’ll eat you,” she said. “I will fucking eat you, you fucking cocksucker coon!”

The racoon smiled.

“I have a gun!” she shouted. “I’ll cook you!”

There was a knock on the door. “Judy?”

Judy hmphed.

“Judy, it’s Steve. I’m coming in, ok?”

Judy blew smoke out her lips. They were red with the lipstick she had put on that morning.

Steve arrived on the balcony, his young face shining like a balloon in the summer day. He just floated around everywhere like a great fucking balloon. Judy hated him.

“So, I see you’re still throwing shit off your balcony,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That was a nice table.”

“You’re a nice table.”

“I don’t know what that means. Judy, can you get dressed? We’re going bowling.”




Steve sighed and sat down. “Do you not want to go bowling?”

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