"Retrograde" & "Up in the Air" by Kathryn Silver-Hajo
- 5 hours ago
- 2 min read

Retrograde
Philip’s parents are away. He stares at the clouds that hang sullen on the horizon, stomach clenching when he remembers Jenny’s words. Her clarity that it’s not up to him. To console himself, he calls his buddies who bring booze, offer sympathy spiked with awe. Wow. That’s rough, dude. I feel you. Philip pictures Jenny at home throwing up, thinks he might too. He remembers her soft breasts against his chest, how they studied together for the SATs, but Jenny beat him by three-hundred points. He downs tequila shots, the world whirling around him, wills it to somehow spin backwards.
Up in the Air
She was packing her hacky sacks. He was readying his devil-sticks. Not bad! he declared, bedroom eyes beckoning. She shivered with anticipation when he juggled jagged daggers, invited her for pizza in the park, twirled her like Ginger Rogers. She swooned when he swore he’d never tire of watching her, but when she lobbed lemons while maneuvering her unicycle, he frowned, launched flaming torches from atop his assistant’s shoulders, pythons circling his collarbone. When he arrived on stilts, a woman on each arm, tossing them sky high, she pedaled off to parts unknown before he could start juggling her heart.





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