Forty Dollars / Tennessee Zoe Grace Marquedant
We’d sat, packed, pitched over the field, and possibly only held in place by the soft push and crush of other people. Burned badly a sort of salmon filet pink, but only on the left because we were up in the cheap seats where your knees touch the shoulder blades of the row in the front of you. But camaraderie! A little shared sweat never hurt nobody and besides, we’ll never see each other again except when we reunite in the skin cancer ward since there’s no cover and we only left once given the fountain lets loose a slow loogie of body-temperature water that’s not worth waiting for, so we left and went back to the nosebleeds. I miss that layered togetherness of T-shirts and asking the very most of Banana Boat. I miss that dehydrated heart of that game.