Us on a concrete park bench, my hand in my pocket, until he pulls it out and makes room for his. His hand in my pocket, and his other hand in his own pocket. My hands flounder, in his hair, at my knees, wherever. Fine. …
“It’s like I have a burnt spot in my brain. I don’t even know what I know. Maybe you should be talking to someone else.” Clara stops. The TV crew waits. A look flits across her face, her attention has passed behind a screen of …
She gives me the look, the same one she throws whenever we brush our teeth together late at night at the double sinks. It’s somewhere between tolerance and abject disgust. Disgust because I not only eat meat but wolf it down rare. “Face eater,” she …
The train pulled into the station. It was in, it was sitting in the station. Platforms aligned, were they, yes, with the level of the doors. Maybe a song enters the head, or leaves it, if headphones are shed. They are being shed, still. An …