She smells like that novel. You know the one?

Lolita.

What do you take me for? She was born in 1984.

That doesn’t mean much these days. No one reads Orwell.

She sleeps in my bed—there’s heavy breathing, crying.

And you say you’re not Humbert Humbert?

We took a road trip, madly circling the 7-Eleven and stopping at the Motel 6.

Keep the details PG-13, my sister’s in the car.

The bed sheets were pale yellow, frilled at the edges.

Let me guess, she wore a slip that looked the same.

I looked at her for a long time.

And she said nothing?

Words didn’t matter. Although later she wrote a sestina.

Did you hear that story on the radio?

I think she’s still there. She didn’t want to leave.

Maybe you should call her mother?

In the evening, after I’ve listened some more.

—

Christopher Linforth is the editor of The Anthem Guide to Short Fiction (Anthem Press, 2011). He also has work published in Chicago Quarterly Review, The Lindenwood Review, Denver Quarterly, and other literary journals. He maintains a website at christopherlinforth.wordpress.com.