Donald Pachinger is a 21-year old writer from Long Island. If he doesn’t write his mind will cave in on itself and he will die. He hopes you enjoy his madness as much as he hates it.
After sex we lay beneath the sheets. She traced my scars with her fingers.
“You have so many scars.”
“Would you believe me if I told you I’m a veteran of over twenty fights? Though I only won seventeen of them.”
She said she believed me.
“Tell me about one of the fights,” she said.
“This one time in Toledo-“
“It’s not relevant. As I was saying…I was in Toledo and I was in this seedy bar. Some guy mistook me for a girl and grabbed my ass. I swung around and smashed him across the face with my beer. The bottle didn’t even break! He was down and out after that and I went back to drinking.”
“That’s horrible!” she gasped.
“And you’re sweet.”
We fucked again then went to sleep. I woke up at 3 a.m., dressed, then left without waking her. I walked down to Broadway. The bars were closed so I leaned against a Laundromat next door and lit a cigarette.