On the bottom of the hot tub there are holes. I have always been a kid attracted to gaps, running my tongue through missing teeth, seeing what would fit in my belly button. I keep my hand up, above the surface, so the others, timing me, betting against me, can tell I’m not dead. One boy tries to stomp my head, but I’m wearing goggles, and I pants him, and the chasms of his body embarrass him into retreat. Not me. I win money. I breathe deep. I strut around the campground. I tell no one how I did it.
Thomas Mixon has poetry and fiction in Rabid Oak, Sweet Tree Review, SAND Journal, and elsewhere.