FLASH
Allanson looked out of the viewport, at the ragtag flotilla of ships trailing behind, some of them slow to catch up. It was to be expected with the little time that they’d had to cobble the fleet together.
I reached for my invoice, which Dr. George, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a soiled diaper, dropped into my hand.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
Another image rises to us both: A man hunched before a TV, watching historical documentaries, correcting incorrect facts. Rasputin was not a priest, damn it.
I know you shouldn’t keep wild animals as pets, but I’ve had the same spider in my bathroom sink for over two weeks.
The weeks go like this: accepting, horny, hopeful, sad. I’m four different people trying to establish one perspective on a major life event – on the creation of life itself.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
At twenty, the world is yours because you’re beautiful. But never acknowledge your beauty, or it makes you a bitch.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.