Gum (8.8)

I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. Half of the blood that runs through my veins is his, this nameless man’s. It’s not a proper photo; it’s a strip of $3 photo booth pictures taken on one of my mom’s few dates with this man.

Sometimes I think I have his eyes, but it’s hard to tell. They’re kinda blurry. Maybe his lips? I might have his laugh, ‘cause I don’t have Mom’s. Hers is bubbly and bright; mine crinkles deep and high.

I imagine the date, and their laughs mingling in the cramped, sweaty booth. There was likely dirt and gum stuck on the floor. Maybe she even dropped a piece and there it rests, stale and hard, the only remainder of that date—aside from the pictures and me.