Kim Chinquee
“Costume”
from Caketrain Issue 02

Yesterday, I tripped over my son’s skateboard. There were skateboards everywhere that I had bought him. He came into the house, another skateboard tucked under his arm. He was caked with mud. “I fell into a puddle,” Tommy said.
     I told him to take a bath. He was ten and afraid of the hot water, so I ran the water for him. I heard him splashing in the tub as I listened through the door. He sang loud and he was yelling, as if he were a rock star.
     I’d been to a Poison concert the night before with my new next-door neighbor. He was a body builder and mechanic. He left his ex-wife six months ago. Last night was the first time since he left that he’d been out. He had said he felt exotic.
     Tommy came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around him. “Who was the guy again?” he said. His hair was wet and up in places. He looked as if he could have been in costume. “Just some guy,” I said.
     I thought about the neighbor, about how, after the concert, he apologized for being shy and quiet. I was not a fan of Poison. But I still yelled and screamed and hollered, and raised my arms and waved my hands like all the people. Once I got going, I didn’t want to stop.
     “You always say that,” Tommy said. I told him to get into his room and put his clothes on. He hopped onto his skateboard, rolled on the hardwood to his bedroom.
     Outside it had been raining. I looked across the yard, saw the neighbor taking out his garbage. He’d told me how much he loved Poison. I didn’t tell him I’d been screaming out of nothing. He was nice and everything. But I would never call him.