Incandescences, doubtful glances. I stare. They dismantle themselves, tear out their gleaming gowns, and sizzle with teeth. I am light. The surroundings disappear with a bang.

-

I halt. Blood is coming out of the drains, the sinks, the cracks in the tiles again. He says it will take a while until his apartment looks presentable. I should take a walk, get some coffee. It’s freezing out here; I would prefer to be buzzed in. I flew all the way here and I’m underdressed for the hemisphere. I’m jet-lagged, dressed in purple, looking ridiculous as I stand on my toes to reach the intercom speaker. I haven’t left the plane. It’s all in your head, says the flight attendant. I don’t remember telling her anything. Unless I’ve been whispering in my sleep. Once more. What if I did disappear in the ocean? What’s the shame in being a victim once in a while? The flight attendant must be a believer. You have to be a believer when you don’t work on solid ground.

-

Dear ms. pop tart, I have missed your guts since last September. We should meet. We shall. Shan’t we? How are Billy and the dogs? This message sounds like a telegram. Hope you’re alive. xoxoxo

This is probably a transcript or a letter in her leather bag (I get chills all over my arms at the thought of it, a leather bag). There is no reception here, I think to myself those kids in the back should be silent, praying that the plane doesn’t crash. A muscular, nearly bald pugilist walks out of the pilot’s chamber: this is a plane, not a party. I struggle against involuntary smiling.

-

His eyes. My eyes. He mirrors my trembling, my uncertainty. I’m never really sure. Our snowglobe eyes. The brown of trees back home a hundred thousand something years old. Don’t eye his nightstand; curiosity about reading material is not welcome in the realm of demons. This beautiful, incestuous country. This goddamned mousetrap. I rigidly stand. He rigidly waits. Is it possible that we don’t know each other anymore? And yet we used to be the best couple of idiots you could ever sweep off a burning meadow. Friends, if you will. At Molly’s for breakfast, in our respective parents’ houses for dinner. As if eating had always been better than speaking. When we spoke we tried to fill our mouths, but they ended up empty every time. And occasionally dry.

Most of the time his room smelled like cigarettes when I wasn’t around. Until that day. And it was as easy as choking on apple-flavored candy, coughing it out then laughing about it. It was like life was supposed to be, and yet it never really happened. We conceived of moments way better than we ever knew how to actually live them. It was funny, having to write a 1500-word-essay about my past. I sure did lie about a bunch of things. But I meant every lie, that’s for certain.

-

~Where am I?

~ In a cage, in heaven.

~ And what am I doing here?

~ You’re sitting, from what I can devise.

-

“Care for a smoke, young lady?” I didn’t smoke. I suffered from what they called inflammation of the air passages in the lungs, causing difficulty in breathing. I didn’t want a lime green cigarette that smelled like pine. I didn’t want a guy with a German accent making a move on me. I just wanted to leave. That’s for certain.

-

“And yet another ghost.... on this evening, of all evenings.” I suppose my father wasn’t speaking of a real ghost (all semantic implications considered). But what if he was?

I flew back to the States that night.

-

Celeste called, said she was floating around, asked me if I was still in New York. I nodded, absent from the fact that we were talking over the telephone. I had a rag in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. I wanted to finish cleaning Rich’s bathroom before he woke up, lest he should think all that blood was my doing.

-

Sweet Richard, with warm palms and curly hair, we shall never meet again. Realization is truth’s kick in the teeth.

-

Bob Dylan was playing on the radio in a diner when the war started. Is that a bad sign?

-

Read my palms. Suck my truth. I am dry, I am light. A feather a cracking stem: I wither only to flourish. They should flourish when I’m gone. I leave town on tiptoe, leaving behind my name, my luggage, and the bloody apartment. The tree’s trilling chalices look quite green, in the sun.