Washington’s porcelain skyline is a sputtering lamp. Inside, he’s trying to calm her, after they decided we should put on clothes. “I thought you understood what this was,” I want to say to her. Instead I crawl out the window in my tights.
Not this grotesque puppetry of limbs and tongues, my beastly weight on this young woman who says, “I have no feelings. I’m post-Nietzschean.” The Canon’s red eye blinks, even though the action has stopped.
Or more accurately, I reenter the way I crawled out. “We thought you were making a phone call,” he says. She asks him to get a towel, and together they rub me down like fresh chicken.
She opts for the couch and in the morning, I’m staring into a mirror pressed against the bed. She’s wearing the headband over perfect fringe bangs. So this is a hiccup in the narration, a part we can edit out and then hold up the sheets in the morning and say, “What a wild night.”
I’m hoarse and feverish. We sing in the streets, “Feelin’ good was good enough for me, hee hee,” but then the breakfast booth only has two seats. I drag a tall stool to the end of the table and perch in my miserable black dress. My bagel comes late and I get it to go. He walks me to the metro. His arm pulls me in on oiled gears and I kiss him, saying, “I always have a good time with you.”