Nitrous Oxide

That smell. It smelled like an Idaho truck lane on a Wednesday. WHAT ARE YOU DOING is one thing and WAIT I KNOW is another. Things are thoughts are feet, we’re taught.

I feel what you’re doing though, because I can tell when you cut my gum and the drill why does it smell. I am Hillary, you are Hillary, and I just have so much love where there used to be so much hate. There’s blood and I might choke on it.

They won’t let me keep my teeth, these mouth wizards. It’s unsanitary, and probably because of all the bacteria that is comparable only to a vagina which also has unmanly bacteria. You can’t keep any souvenirs from the gynocologist. This was my chance to jimmy rig some mesenchymal stem cells out of my own body and do the fancy things.

This was my chance to hold my own bodily stability. My echo of primitive threat. My teeth, god damn it. Stable yet movable, things for feasting and fasting all the same. What bothers me most about my teeth is that they don’t travel loin south, don’t sprout from the  Mother Mouth. Vagina dentata, come closah, say high.


This Sort of Us

Unfortunately for you, I looked hot. Very hot. I was rocking a rather stylized messy bun, easing its way to one side of my head, and my makeup was a screech of Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Manson. I was wearing a lot of pink, which I hate, but was having a bit of a “fuck it” identity crisis. All of these tricks of the attention-whore trade wouldn’t work on the average, quiet man—the one who wants Chinese food Fridays and sweats when we first hold hands. You aren’t this sort of man.

You don’t belong to a sort, period. You, rebel of decency and connoisseur of female poison, can’t be bothered to wake up before one p.m. You like to sample stranger’s smoking habits, picking up a free drag here and there, never buying your own. The resulting bouquet of dead ash and wet packs on your balcony is evidence of the variety of women you allow to enjoy you.

I met you in that gray, temperamental window of time when women often meet men: I wanted no acquaintance with Cupid and no knowledge of episodic carnality. I wanted nobody, nothing, only time and space to call my own. And then I decided to get drunk.

You were (and still are—congratulations!) very tall. You slouch a little to diminish the gender-neutral discomfort that others exude upon meeting you. You usually wear tennis shoes. You came over to me; I could tell you liked my shirt. Your birthday is two days after mine. Your heart smelled of cold days and too many climbed trees. Your heart smelled of our children.

My feral curiosity crept over me, and my head felt hot. I followed you back to your place, and your friend liked my friend, which make the whole whiskey crudeness bearable.

Safely inside your red walled apartment, somewhere in the kidney of Hollywood, we lay loosely around each other, like apes. This doesn’t happen, we concluded, meaning us—the whole morbid tranquility of us.

We didn’t have sex until the second date, when we ended up being late for a barbeque. You cooked sausages, and talked. I watched the clouds wrestle, and felt sad.

Our cycle had begun. A tensely wound ball of yarn, of varying colors and textures (maybe a few branches in there), unfolding heretically around us. We were doomed. Forever was on our side.