Maggie Johnson

by ​​​E.C. Gannon

RB

On the day we met, she told me she saw 

right through my pretend swagger, told me 

that I was making her nervous, and then 

asked if I would drive her to the ice cream 

parlor down the street because it felt like 

a strawberry kinda night, and that was the only 

place in town that flavored their soft serve. 

She said she’d buy me whatever I wanted. 

We sat in the corner booth, and she looked out 

the window as the cars slid through the rain 

and twirled her spoon in her cup until 

the ice cream slushed. She said she thought 

if she and Grover Cleveland were the last two

people on Earth, she’d have to kill herself. 

When I asked why, she shrugged and told me 

I wouldn’t understand. I licked my cone

and watched out the window as a sedan 

swerved into the oncoming lane. There was 

no one else around, though, so it corrected 

itself and continued forward unscathed.

​​​E.C. Gannon’s work has appeared in Peatsmoke Journal, Assignment Magazine, SoFloPoJo, Olit, and elsewhere. Raised in New Hampshire, she holds a degree from Florida State University and is pursuing another at the University of New Mexico.