You were an easy mark is all I’m saying. Clocked your stare five gates away, thought alright, game on. Slow my stride. Swing my hips. Park myself one seat over, fingers through my hair, arch my back and stretch. Old playbook, but it works. Last flight to Vegas and the gate is a zoo. Hundreds of sweaty people aching to let loose. Your bachelor buddies are shouting about shaving their nuts but you’re not paying attention because we are excruciatingly aware of one another and if I do this right, if I’m on my game, I’ll leave you blue-balled and just a little bit in love. Here’s how I knew we were cosmic: guy next to me on the plane wants me to switch seats with his wife, she’s two rows back sat next to guess who. Hey stranger, I say, brushing your hip as I buckle my seat belt. Half the rows are full of your buddies, all wearing the same stupid shirt. One of them turns and chokes when he sees I’m next to you. Two sharp nods. Which one of you is Mr. September? I ask. Are you all firefighters? You’re not and you’re not, but you’re a blue-eyed six-two sweepy-haired something alright, so you can be forgiven and I say, you could have fooled me.
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Kirsti MacKenzie has published in HAD, trampset, Identity Theory, and Maudlin House. She studied creative writing at Humber College and Memorial University but learned the most from bathroom graffiti in dive bars. She lives in Ottawa and can be found perpetually on her bullshit @KeersteeMack.
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image: Jade Hawk is a meat popsicle.
Rejection Letters 