The Inner City (published in Pure Slush 2018)

In the apartment, with walls that bend in the heat, Kat is pacing in pink bra, panties, her oversized bunny slippers. She meanders from mirror to mirror, sticking her tongue out, which is meant for me. I mean the reflection. She can regress to a child in a matter of seconds.

It's the end of summer. In the city, birds fly from forgotten attics. Sooty-faced winos rise from manholes. Women are having more babies and the babies are taking over the world. In two days, I will be on a plane to Ohio, to prepare my future in a small college that reminds me of medieval castles and fortresses. Even the birds there know Latin.

Kat kneels between my knees. I'm sitting on an old cushy chair we picked up at a street bazaar one Sunday morning. She sinks her chin near my crotch. Her eyes are wide and tempting.

"You know what I'm going to say, Bugs." That's her nickname for me. Before that I was nothing. Not even a grasshopper in a jar.

"Yes," I say.

She never uses the word, love. It will lead to tragic consequences, complex life stories. For her, it's a metaphysical black hole.

"I'm afraid we'll lose each other."

"I will write and call. I will come home for the vacations."

"Not good enough. Do better. Don't go."

"My parents across the river would kill me. They'd kill you too."

She makes a face, screwing up her nose and upper lip. She reminds me of a close-up of Bjork from an old music video where Bjork might have been imitating Kat.

I won't tell her that I'll miss her, and the seventeen versions of her. I won't tell her that I'll miss the summer's heavy traffic jams or the breezy echoes of our breaths in the stillness of the night. I loved the fuzziness of waking up next to her, trying to hear her dreamy head hum.

She slides her hands back and forth over my thighs. It gives me goose bumps. It makes me feel powerful, regal, despite my allergies to her tobacco-scented perfumes. Her deep green-alien eyes lazer-beam mine. Who's the mysterious panther from outer space?

"Listen, I'm afraid too. The city is full of unfulfilled dudes. Guys with crazy mood-swings. The city is full of other bugs. They can bite and infect you."

She turns her head toward the wall, then back again. She looks reflective, wistful.

"Why don't we go to the roof and see if we can fly?"

I imitate Groucho Mark's jumping eyebrows. Mine are not as thick, but they're not fake.

"Really? Should we get a film crew? Don't we need a license to fly?"

Her eyes are big and sad. Not loveless.

"Seriously, Bugs. It hurts. And it's going to hurt more. I don't want to die like Emily Dickinson."

I feel clumsy and stupid. I fold my hands and look past everything. The way I sometimes do in class when at loss for an answer.

"I doubt I'll die like Lord Byron. Sleeping with every woman who read his poems."

"I got it," says Kat, snapping her fingers. "Let's fuck each other to death. Right here on the floor. CSI will discover traces of us on each other. A mutual homicide, sloppily planned by two unbalanced youths tottering on the wavering line of summer passing into autumn. Let's fuck until our hearts stop. Let's fuck until you have to leave. Let's fuck until we both disappear. Pleeeeease."

I smile at her.

She returns a funny face. A face that masks more mischievousness. Her eyes hold miniature carefree galaxies where everyone is allergic to gravity.

The news today claims that we will be drawn into a cataclysmic war with North Korea. Dictators across the world are cloning themselves. Everyone lies about disarmament. The way I am Kat's prisoner when she cries after sex. Or when sitting on the subway that will take me back to New Jersey and the fresh lawns of the suburbs. Everything is something else and potentially dangerous.

On this subway, everyone pretends that they wouldn't want to sleep with each other, not even for curiosity's sake. No one wants to give an undercover blow job. There's a fear of terrorists from every walk of life. But I'm still wearing Kat's scents. I'm coated with Kat. I'm oozing Kat juice. I am no longer afraid of allergies. I twitch as a commuter sneezes. I almost say "God loves you," before I catch myself. The train makes a sharp turn. I hold on to my seat and say "God bless you."