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Amanda Mincher Single Memphis

Josey hadn’t been with a man in almost a year. She’d been pregnant at fifteen and then again at eighteen. She’d given both up for adoption. After that, she’d doubled up—condoms and birth control; that did the trick for a couple of years. It kept her from getting pregnant, anyway, but it didn’t do a damn thing to keep her from choosing the wrong man. Josey was twenty-one now and celibate. She’d gotten good at gettin’ none, she liked to say. Jefferson Davis made Josey sing a different tune the day he walked into the Tigermart looking for a Blue Freeze slushie and a 5-hour Energy drink. He was a cop, and Josey generally held a low opinion of Memphis cops, but she just smiled at this one. He was tall, with barely-there muscles that peeked out from the short sleeves of his shirt and smooth black skin, a shaved bald head she knew would feel like silk against her cheek when she held him in bed. They talked, and she watched as the slushie turned his tongue a deeper and deeper blue the longer the conversation went on. He showed up at the Tigermart almost every morning after that. A few weeks after she’d first seen Jefferson, Josey had lunch with her friend Martha. They shared a plate of barbeque pork nachos and drank Bud Light out of plastic cups on the patio behind The Barbeque Shop. The plastic sweated and slipped in Josey’s hand, and she felt her skin flush under the late August sun. The humidity made everything damp; Martha’s curls were wild with frizz. Josey reached out and smoothed a curl down, smiled at Martha, then asked for help. “What to do with a girl like Josey,” Martha said. “I like him,” Josey said. “You like every boy. That’s just what you do.” Martha shrugged. “Jefferson’s not a boy, though. He’s gotta be at least twenty-six.” Josey licked her fingers clean. “He likes me, too. I know it. You shoulda seen him. He set me on fire.” “It’s not fair. I can’t find a boy to take me to dinner in the whole of U-Memphis, but you can just pick them out of line at the Tigermart.” “Maybe you’re the lucky one,” Josey said. “Boys only lead to trouble.” She thought of a thumbnail small as an ant, of pursed little duck lips, all she could picture of her second son. The first was a

Profile for Kerri Foley

Crack the Spine - Issue 62  

Literary Magazine

Crack the Spine - Issue 62  

Literary Magazine

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