THE FRIDGE MAN
At the end of the day, all I want to do is beam from Alexa to Alexa, going through the fridges of Americans. I want to taste their days and guess the strength of their relationships based on what’s in there. My good spoon and I would sample every half-gone fruit spread in the country, straight from the jar, learning by experience the difference between jellies, jams, preserves, whatever. You couldn’t tell me anything. I’d guess the items inside before opening the door, picturing the shelves, the sauce racks, the hinging plastic shell. I’d eventually get lucky and guess every product in the Hotpoint of a performance marketer while he slept on the couch in the other room. He’d hear me celebrating, making eggy ramen in his kitchen. He’d flick the light on and rub his small eyes. “Fwidge Man? Is that weally you?”
HELP ME OUT HERE
I’m at the urinal in the WeWork men’s room when a guy rests his chin on my shoulder and sighs. He has a gelled part in his black hair and the ideal suggestion of cologne. I tuck away my member, but I don’t push him off or leave just yet. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this needed.
Lamb is an American writer // web: lamb.onl , twitter: @read_lamb, insta: @lmbonl
Back Patio Press 