Jumping into the Six Sentence Sunday fray with a sample from the Christmas-themed story I just finished, titled “The Christmas Spirit.”
I follow Cord’s gaze, and just a few yards away, at the dark edge of the dance floor, I finally see myself. I’ve got my hands in the back pockets of some guy whose name I don’t know, with another body pressed up behind me. This time I can’t remember what happened next. Neither of the men looks familiar, and it’s at that moment I realize how few of the men I’ve bedded—or walled, or chaired, or whatever—have been memorable enough for me to recall their names, much less their faces. Stick it in a hole long enough to get off; that’s been enough for me.
Suddenly it doesn’t seem like enough anymore, and I’m ashamed to watch myself doing it.