I was sure I was winning.
I mean, he knew nothing about human physiology. He leaned back, chugging a keystone light like the beer rushing down his throat was actually dropping all the way to bladder and out his dumb dickhole. I hated dickholes like this. So why was I here? Probably a girl, or to prove a point or something. I can't remember. You know they say, like: it was all kind of a blur and then--. He was smoking a cigarette too. You know how people get it to hang there on the verge of dropping out and burning their crotch, like Johnny Depp? I couldn't believe this guy, but I was confident that I had him.
People were chanting but I wasn't sure who for. I had him on distance; my singed yellow line through the dirty snow peaked at feet past his. Way out there, steam rose like from a dead animal.
And then I realized I didn't know the rules. Were there rules to this? I was slowing down, coming back in. Was it who went longer? Was the beer thing actually working, albeit psychosomatically? Maybe he does this a lot and it's like his 'thing'. Like, he knows this ancient trick of tilting the head at the right angle, and the liquid just goes right through all of you, skipping all the tubes and processes. Maybe everyone here knew much more than I did. Me with my pathetic dribble, and he's just unchanged by time, going strong, steady, pee pooling a short distance from his body.
I zipped up, spit into the snow, and turned for home, with voices still chanting behind me.
Still going, he lit another cigarette.
Tyler Barton is a writer living in Lancaster, PA. He is the co-founder and editor of his local literary organization, The Triangle.