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White People by Brandon Getz

The white people moved in on the second day of summer. My wife said they were albinos. “Albinos have pink eyes,” I said. “Like mice.” “Did you see their eyes? Were you up close in their eyeballs?” I wasn’t, and said so. “Maybe theirs are dark pink. Maybe they’re some other kind of albino. Australian or something.” My wife, Midge, thought everything exotic came from Australia. Ever since she bought a jar of Vegemite from the international aisle at the supermarket. She thought it was the zaniest thing. “Why don’t they just use peanut butter?” she’d asked me, grinning. She was proud of herself for trying something exotic. The husband—Mr. White, my wife called him—mowed his lawn in shorts and a t-shirt. Mrs. White sunbathed on a plastic lounger, big movie star sunglasses covering her eyes. She never turned a shade darker; if anything, her skin and hair became more radiant. Midge and I would argue about this, me insisting that the wife was whiter, Midge replying that Mr. White was the brighter of the two. But when we saw them side by side, framed inside their open front door, when we took over a plate of macadamia cookies, any differences in whiteness were only a trick of the light. A certain shadow on the cheek or the elbow. The white people were simply an absence of color, from their eyebrows to their fingernails, white as a blank sheet of typing paper. “We brought cookies,” Midge said. “Thanks,” the Whites said. “Your yard looks good,” I told Mr. White. “Real green.”

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Profile for After Happy Hour

The After Happy Hour Review || Spring 2015  

A biannual collection of fiction, poetry, and visual art representing the best work from Pittsburgh and beyond, as well as examples showing...

The After Happy Hour Review || Spring 2015  

A biannual collection of fiction, poetry, and visual art representing the best work from Pittsburgh and beyond, as well as examples showing...

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