Poetry | September 01, 2008

Dearly beloved Katie Smoak, cheerleader at Hickory High, on-again-off-again best friend. How did she smell like that? I saw Katie Smoak with the roll-on bottle of essential oil though she refused to tell me which oil was essential. “Get your own,” she said. I saw her roll it on her wrists, up her arms, down her shirt. Katie Smoak bought hers from the head shop where her boyfriend, a lanky guy named Beef Jones, bought his bongs. Katie Smoak was rumored to screw the gym teacher in his Mazda Miata before the bell for first period. That early in the morning? “Katie Smoak is always raging for it,” they said. “What I wouldn’t give to do Katie Smoak.” “I’m calling because I heard you were friends with Katie Smoak.” “I’d never cheat on you with that whore Katie Smoak.” “Are you going to the party at Katie Smoak’s?” “I might have cheated on you with that bitch Katie Smoak.” She smelled like musk, vanilla, magnolia, cinnamon and none of these. I tried a dozen oils and still never smelled like her. “I like to think,” she said, “that one day Beef Jones will be walking his wife to the Victoria’s Secret, getting something to spice up their defunct sex life, and he’ll smell a woman who smells like me, and he’ll think of me, and remember with deep sorrow and regret how I used to afford him the pleasure of sitting on his face.” Katie Smoak was lovely.