Triptych
Cocktail hour.
Small talk. Gin and tonic. I smile. Listening, present, unsteady. Connective tissue twists, not yet tearing.
I’d spent the last thirty minutes in my hotel room breathing slow, making myself bigger, building a buffer against the world.
Comforting voices in the crowd. I shove down the urge to lean into them. Shame and pride wrestle. I’m forced into an inventory.
Tartan skirt, dull sheen of polyester blend. Black shirt, sheer cocktail glass for a pocket. Grapefruit juice. Lavender. Background guitar, slightly flat. Muted rainbow from the bar TV reflecting off a bald head.
Empty words scrape at my buffer. I nod and laugh on cue. My own words are all the wrong shapes, cutting my mouth. Light-headed, waiting for endorphins.
My conversations replay, second-guessed.
Did I talk over her?
I laughed too loud.
Forty and still this, you asshole.
Skin stretches tight and my body hums. I swallow my pride and walk back into the evening air. I drift to a friend.
“Can you stand by me for a second?”
She hugs me. Floods me with love. My skin stops itching. The urge to scream dies.
Dinner.
“Japanese Highball, please.”
“Yes, very good.”
“Same for me.”
The waiter’s cufflinks clack against his tablet.
Drinks arrive an hour later. Two hours in, a single course arrives for one person. Hour three, another for someone else.
Ribs squeeze; the buffer’s thin as a ghost.
Everyone loose, delirious. Smiles curdle into stares. Stories on repeat.
Tables adrift in sake bowls. Roars of drunk laughter echo off the walls.
Clicks of ice and stir sticks in glasses–different tones like crickets. Uncollected dish of pink kimchi juice. Vocal fry, dragging. Overhead lights too blue.
My buffer explodes into shrapnel and my ribs saw jagged holes.
The room lurches. I try to stand but the chair clings to me, sticky. Too much gravity, not enough oxygen. I bite my tongue hard and use the pain as a handhold.
Shuttle.
First on the bus. The driver shares a hired smile. Synthetic leather cool against my skin. For a few minutes, it’s quiet and I can breathe. The seat turns to sandpaper as it warms.
The volume builds as others join. Someone starts a party game. I beg them not to; say it like a joke. Everyone shouts over a wall of music.
The sound is unsteady, full of spikes. Individual words break through. Synthesizers. Drums. Each note cuts. I try to focus on the city lights, anything solid and not sharp. I can’t hold them. The world is suffocating, serrated noise.
A friend sits across the aisle in the window seat. She smiles, laughs. I focus on her to stop the descent. She catches my eyes. Pauses. Continues laughing. Catches them again. Concerned.
An arm slides toward me, offering ear buds. I shove them in. A hand touches my head. I want to clasp it and pull myself out of this but my hands lock in heavy claws over my ears.
The roar dulls. A little air sneaks into my lungs.
Tears roll down my cheeks. Anger and embarrassment silent passengers. Every inch of skin burns inside and out. Lights blur and go static, looping forever. Then we are stopped, ejected.
I vibrate under the moon. My hands open and close to a rhythm the bus took with it, automatic, awkward. Arms wrap my spine.
Thanks and apologies leak from my mouth–appreciated, brushed aside.
I beg to melt into the softness of being held. Scream inside for it. My body refuses.
Concrete parquet, tile missing. Shadows stumble from gas lamps. My ragged breath. Ribs pry backward.
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About the Author
Chris Dodds lives in Oklahoma City. His debut, Necessary Cuts, won Miami University Press’ 2026 Novella Prize. His work has appeared in BULL and Marrow Magazine, and is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel. Find him online at chrisdodds.net.