The Write-off
—
Michael Hughes Wesner
IT’S NECK DEEP INTO SUMMERTIME and the frogs are asking me to commit tax fraud. Or something. It’s difficult to interpret their chirping, scattered as they are amidst the pond shadows, the lily pads, the neighbor’s rose bushes. Comprehensible or not, they make the best conversation this time of year: when the moonlight is soupy and the night feels warm and drapes like chowder over the skin.
The frogs ask me to purchase some mealworms. They claim I can write it off as a business expense, so long as they act like my clients.
“You want me to defraud the government?” To which they reply, no, of course not, they’re interested in buying a home. Which is what I do for a living: flip old homes for new buyers. Though I haven’t sold one in years.
The frogs ask me to put a hundred bucks on LeBron in the Dunk Contest.
“LeBron’s never been in the Dunk Contest.”
But imagine how rich we’ll be if someone who’s not in the Dunk Contest wins it.
I imagine it.
Once I’m finished imagining, my wife trots down the hill in her bathrobe and slippers, slicking through grass dew and moon soup to ask what the hell I’m doing in the neighbor’s yard.
“Listening to the frogs.” Then I nod toward that little neon flag, glowing beneath the starlight, which demarcates the properties. “This part of the pond’s ours.”
The frogs ribbit in consensus. They say my wife looks like that actress—that nepo baby from the TV show about fashion and sex and croissants and stuff.
“Emily in Paris?”
My wife rubs sleep from her eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The frogs think you look like Lily Collins.” And come to think of it, they’re not far off. Similar bone structure, similar hair color.
“Is this one of your little episodes?” asks my wife, who is not Lily Collins, and who has never been Lily Collins, as far as I’m aware. “One of your stress attacks from work?”
I consider it. But no, that can’t be right. I haven’t flipped a home in years. There’s plenty I’ve purchased cheap, subjected to tasteful demolition, renovated in quarters or thirds. I’ve torn out rugs, de-papered walls, scattered ghosts like kitchen tile. Splintered past lives into pieces at the premonition of prospective families. But none of those have sold yet. Even that wacky, fairy-cottage-looking house with the moss-covered chimney. Come to think of it, the frogs, such talented speculators, would love that home.
They ask if we’re still getting lunch.
“I never agreed to that.”
“You never agreed to stress attacks?” my wife asks. “Well, you either get ‘em or you don’t.”
Just like mealworms, say the frogs. Just like LeBron in the Dunk Contest.
“LeBron’s not in the Dunk Contest!”
I wait for my wife to say something, anything, but when I turn, she’s halfway up the hill, frothing through moonlight, back to our shared lives, our shared bed, our home.
“You know, I flipped this home,” I tell the frogs.
That’s great, they chitter and flash. Now let’s talk business. •
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Michael Hughes Wesner is a writer from outside of Philadelphia. An alumnus of the Kenyon Review Fiction Workshop, he is an MFA candidate and English instructor at the University of Alabama, where he serves as Fiction Editor of Black Warrior Review and former Online Editor of its web edition, Boyfriend Village. His fiction has appeared in The Good Life Review.
Instagram | Bluesky
The frogs ask me to purchase some mealworms. They claim I can write it off as a business expense, so long as they act like my clients.
“You want me to defraud the government?” To which they reply, no, of course not, they’re interested in buying a home. Which is what I do for a living: flip old homes for new buyers. Though I haven’t sold one in years.
The frogs ask me to put a hundred bucks on LeBron in the Dunk Contest.
“LeBron’s never been in the Dunk Contest.”
But imagine how rich we’ll be if someone who’s not in the Dunk Contest wins it.
I imagine it.
Once I’m finished imagining, my wife trots down the hill in her bathrobe and slippers, slicking through grass dew and moon soup to ask what the hell I’m doing in the neighbor’s yard.
“Listening to the frogs.” Then I nod toward that little neon flag, glowing beneath the starlight, which demarcates the properties. “This part of the pond’s ours.”
The frogs ribbit in consensus. They say my wife looks like that actress—that nepo baby from the TV show about fashion and sex and croissants and stuff.
“Emily in Paris?”
My wife rubs sleep from her eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The frogs think you look like Lily Collins.” And come to think of it, they’re not far off. Similar bone structure, similar hair color.
“Is this one of your little episodes?” asks my wife, who is not Lily Collins, and who has never been Lily Collins, as far as I’m aware. “One of your stress attacks from work?”
I consider it. But no, that can’t be right. I haven’t flipped a home in years. There’s plenty I’ve purchased cheap, subjected to tasteful demolition, renovated in quarters or thirds. I’ve torn out rugs, de-papered walls, scattered ghosts like kitchen tile. Splintered past lives into pieces at the premonition of prospective families. But none of those have sold yet. Even that wacky, fairy-cottage-looking house with the moss-covered chimney. Come to think of it, the frogs, such talented speculators, would love that home.
They ask if we’re still getting lunch.
“I never agreed to that.”
“You never agreed to stress attacks?” my wife asks. “Well, you either get ‘em or you don’t.”
Just like mealworms, say the frogs. Just like LeBron in the Dunk Contest.
“LeBron’s not in the Dunk Contest!”
I wait for my wife to say something, anything, but when I turn, she’s halfway up the hill, frothing through moonlight, back to our shared lives, our shared bed, our home.
“You know, I flipped this home,” I tell the frogs.
That’s great, they chitter and flash. Now let’s talk business. •
Michael Hughes Wesner is a writer from outside of Philadelphia. An alumnus of the Kenyon Review Fiction Workshop, he is an MFA candidate and English instructor at the University of Alabama, where he serves as Fiction Editor of Black Warrior Review and former Online Editor of its web edition, Boyfriend Village. His fiction has appeared in The Good Life Review.
Instagram | Bluesky