PUNK PROSE: Best by Jenna Brown

 Best 

When I saw the name on the taco bag, I hit a mailbox and tumbled off my bike. No tacos fell out, but I did scrape my knee. 

One knock, two knocks, three. 

My brand-new boyfriend has been hanging around here for months. He talks about her too much. Sometimes I think I know more about her than I know about him. 

But she doesn’t know me.

Before I left, I looked around the apartment. Her velvet ottoman. Subtle art that looks expensive. Plants. Record player. Her designer clothes. Her band name in cursive script hanging on her wall. She has a Masters in art. Her parents supported her travels through Europe, where she learned to shape wire with a soldering iron. 

I hop on my bike and pedal away for my next delivery. 

I don’t think I want to be alive anymore.

He met her before he met me. They went out on a few dates and it fizzled out. I wasn’t allowed to hear the details. 

And I wasn’t allowed to meet her. Today, the universe via Señor Gato’s Speedy Tacos decided to override that policy. 

I have two more bags of tacos to deliver. Riding around the city is my favorite part of this job, but most deliveries seem to go to the same fancy pants neighborhood. Next one is two houses over.

A man answers the door. He grabs the bag from my hand and shuts the door without a word. This is surprising. He didn’t tip online, so I was expecting cash.

I kick his rose bush and hop on my bike.

I do donuts on his lawn. He opens the door and calls me a few names as I ride off. 

Doesn't he know I am doing my best? Next time that guy orders, he’s getting food thrown at his window instead. Or not -- I imagine I’ll be fired for the donut stint. But to be honest I’m tired of this gig. I’m tired of my life. I’m tired of my boyfriend. 

I ride to the riverfront and cry on a bench. I open my last delivery, take a bite. 

If I had brothers, they’d probably have joined the circus.

--Jenna Brown