Christopher Shipman

The Movie My Murderer Makes

 

My Murderer is a stack of beer cans, a flock of frat boys at last call, the first empty booth, or a booth where one girl sits, not drunk enough for any of this. I wish my murderer was a sexy librarian, an old Beatles song, a word resting on my shoulder, a man on vacation anywhere but the beach, but he is everything else, and I am at this self-conscious bar not far from the sea, and everywhere smells of salt and skin, and everyone is dressed to death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Movie My Murderer Makes

 

My murderer’s face is painted on the wall behind the bar at Molly’s Irish Pub. His beady blue eyes follow me to the bathroom, to the cliché phrase, the cigarette machine, the bar, and when he picks up the check and winks at the painted version of himself, out into the summertime streets, where we walk and walk without talking about anything, where I think of nothing other than the painted faces of the pretty girls we pass, the girls who live without escape plans.      

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