Bits of unstuck grounds clung to swirling milky white. His phone jittered on the uneven table but he didn’t answer. He was already listening somewhere else. In tune to the little girl voices speaking behind him in tones of summer pink and yellow.

a unicorn uterus
like swirled?
yeah
like in a circle?
yeah. around
then why do they call it unicorn?
I don’t know
crazy
I know

His porcelain white teeth clamped down on a hard red swizzle stick. A barista called out a half-caff something something over her shoulder in hurried and muddled language. An old man answered in stoops and with a little plastic coin purse clattering change.

so she won’t be able to
ever?
ever. so they say
fuck
I know
I mean. jesus
I know

A blueberry muffin lay decimated atop a handful of brown crumpled napkins. Raw sugar packets split open like roasting pigs above cave man or cast iron flames. His nipples underneath his button-down touched the slight air-conditioner breeze and hardened perceptibly. His shoe laces felt perfect today: not too tight and not too loose.

but they’re still trying
really?
yep. said they’d still try
wow
I know
that'll be. jesus
I know. I can’t imagine

Inside the smell of a miscellaneous perfume he gripped a stamen and yanked it to his nose as if it were roots. Sweet flowery pollen dusted the air and the old man returning with his half-caff something something sneezed and nearly shit his pants for his weakened rectum. But the cuffs of his pants were neatly hemmed and carefully pressed and the drink was boiling hot like he liked it.

better to try than nothing I guess
I guess. but I mean
hope for an immaculate conception
jesus. right
no pun intended
christ. I just can’t believe it. really?
really

Again his phone was busy pulsing but he was still listening to the wilting pink and yellow voices and not answering. It was his wife again according to the digital display. No doubt wondering when he’d come home. Bored again with just her uterus to think about on over-heated days like this.

I don’t get it
what?
the unicorn thing. the name
I don’t know. cause it spirals I think
jesus. spirals. I feel so.
I know. terrible for her
right. I couldn’t imagine

Another woman rose for the bathroom and dragged her tiny red purse along and he wondered immediately if she was on her period. And two tables over two men sat staring at silvery laptops laughing their curly shag hair backwards and forwards while a girl at their table looked downward and sung along whispery with Paul Simon and Mrs. Robinson.

I’ll call her
she’d like that
I won’t know what to say
you will
I’m sure
she'll appreciate it no matter what. she will
god. what a fucked up thing

He glanced to the old man again. Thank god he was still young. He thought about how straight his dick was and how hard it could get at the mere mention of blowjobs or handjobs or women kissing women. Even when she giggled he’d start to feel it starting to start. What luck to be such a young virile man in this young virile man’s world.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Meat & Gristle
By J. A. Tyler

She said to her goddamn, not like that you stupid little, jesus christ, I can't believe you're even included in the goddamn reading, with the way your mouth is crooked sometimes and you're hair is a fucking mess and now you don't even know the fucking lines, jesus christ, you must have your daddy's stupid genes, that must be it, huh?

That's what she said as her foot egged the gas in thunderous spurts and her head bobbed and weaved prizefighter fashion and the little girl with the pink headband just sat there her hands folded in her lap and her lips wet with gloss. And the thing went on like it always did.

She said to her jesus christ, she said it's how many do you need, the emphasis should be on many, how many do you need, how many do you need, didn't we work on this goddamn thing all last night, didn't we, didn't we, so what the hell happened, huh, what the hell happened?

And the mother's pock-marked face shook and shuddered with the vowels and jowls and her grease black hair lay in tangles at her shoulders and her teeth snaggled and snarled as the words and spit unbound and flew.

She said you're sometimes, goddamn, so amazing at forgetting things, did you know that, that you can't remember shit, that I'm surprised you can remember your name some days, are you surprised by that, huh, are you?

The girl's name was Sarah and her jeans were new and smart and her top had a little pink bow chest centered and perfectly matched to her earrings and her headband and the plastic digital strapped to her tiny bone-filled wrist. And the girl didn't say anything because she knew it was a battle lost by inches every syllable and treacherous and horrific and frightening. But her vocabulary was smaller than that so she thought it was sad and scary and unhappy and loud. And scary. And sad. And unhappy. And loud.

She said you're a piece a work, do you know that, bringing me out today like this, stringing this shit along and you don't even know your goddamn lines, tell me, how are they going to pick you if you can't even say the shit that they gave you to say, huh, can you tell me that, how that's going to happen, huh?

And a driver cut them off in their astro minivan and the mother flipped him a finger and yelled fuck you out the window and the girl smiled a little corner of the mouth smile because it wasn't at her for a split second and that felt like donuts Saturday morning or the day the paychecks came in because that was a day when her mom was nice finally and wanted to buy her new clothes and a small salad at an expensive restaurant and maybe a new pair of earrings or a necklace or a doll like she always said she was going to buy her but never did.

So when the car in front of them swerved to return the finger and the steering wheel slipped from her grime fingers and the left wheel hit the square curb and tipped the van and skidded the side and punched the hood and shattered the windows and sent Sarah flying seatbeltless through the windshield and onto the pavement no one could have been happier than the little girl to be soaring above all the meat and gristle of the world she knew until then.

Among seventy or so other publications, J. A. Tyler has work recently with or appearing soon in The Feathertale Review, Thieves Jargon, Underground Voices, & Word Riot. He is also founding editor of Mud Luscious. Check out more at www.aboutjatyler.com.