I Thought About How The Sea by Gwen Beatty

During a lull in an extended mistake I met a man who never seemed to finish a cigarette. One morning I bummed him one and said, “Maybe you should finish something for once.”

In his hotel room he had a complimentary cup filled with vodka and spit and cigarette butts and he just kept putting more of each one in it. The night of the morning I bummed him a cigarette he started yelling and throwing shit and an empty bottle collided with a painting above my head.

It was a great big sailing ship, a real shitty piece of hotel art. A small, round burn from a stranger’s cigarette was mashed into a little painted seagull.

The yelling was exhausting. I thought about that real shitty piece of hotel art. His forearm trapped my neck and I wondered about the men on the ship and if they had families and if they had daughters. I thought about how the sea looked a bit rough and how the men were probably praying down there in the ship basement.

I thought about praying for a second.

I didn’t pray or anything.

Gwen Beatty is a barista, a sorority dropout, and she still lives with her parents. She can fold a dollar bill into a tiny hat. She hopes to die soon.