lines in italics written by Josh Olivier We sit stoned on the couch, our feet sweaty and outstretched. The smell of them in the air. You read from the short story you’re writing: Slouching, I looked at my hands, actively aware of the weight of my shoulders, feeling suddenly ape-like. My stomach gurgles and I wonder if I should take a preemptive Imodium. My apartment is too small to shit with you here and our relationship too new for you to know I shit at all. “Do you ever feel like a monkey?” I asked. I scratch your greasy