FLASH
It all started with the curse of my tits. Women’s bodies are cursed. Everyone tries to look at them, everyone tries to ignore them.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
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.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
Sound engineers believe Alan Rickman possessed the perfect male voice. Early acting teachers told him he sounded like he was speaking from the back of a drainpipe.
Sitting at the bar on Pacific Avenue. With the seashells in the walls. Same bartender from last year, still here, making the same lethal Mai Tais.
None speak of how the streets collide in coarse seams like scars, the fresh cobbles unable to level with the ones shaken from their mortar by uncountable seasons.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
At twenty, the world is yours because you’re beautiful. But never acknowledge your beauty, or it makes you a bitch.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
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.
