When Will You Come Home?

by Patrick T. Lo

Angela was my friend, back in high school. I mean, we would still hang out. Every once in a while. She moved to another country. I didn’t know where. She wouldn’t tell me. She told me somewhere east of here, but that was a worthless piece of information— It was another freakin’ country. I miss her sometimes. She only came back twice last year. She was never on Facebook so I didn’t know what she was up to. Not until she came back to the country. We would meet up to say hello and she would tell me what she was working on, without telling me where she moved to. It was strange. She’s a strange girl. A bit of a weirdo. I like that. She used to smell like pop rocks. Now, not so much. More like Sour Skittles? I know that doesn’t sound appealing on paper, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re in like— You start to enjoy Sour Skittles. I’ve never told anyone this, but she had tiny nipples. I mean, she still probably does, but she told me she had some sort of plastic surgery and she didn’t state which part of the body it was for. I automatically assumed her nipples were affected.

Okay. So I didn’t know an Angela. I don’t think I’ve ever met an Angela. That’s kind of sad. I think I would be up for dating an Angela and we would get along quite well. We would go for brunch together and have San Pellegrinos together and make up band names together. I don’t know this Angela, but I miss her already.

Sometimes I fantasize about girls I’ll never meet. It’s better that way. The break up would be quick and painless— I mean, quick with the minimum amount of pain measurable. But just a little bit.

I thought “The Prickly Poops” would make for a kick-ass punk band name. Angela disagreed.

Fair enough.