Member-only story
The Ones Before ‘The One’
What I can’t remember, and what I can’t forget
“If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die” — Mik Everett
I try
once again to recall her face, which feels like digging up a time capsule, dusting it off, spinning in a dozen circles, describing aloud what I see, then putting it in a blender and drinking it and seeing if it tastes like what I remember
which I know doesn’t really make sense, but neither does the fact that her face, the one that’s elusive as it is beautiful, appears somewhere between “seatbacks” and “tray tables” and, like Mufasa in the clouds or Jesus on a potato chip, emerges in my diluted Sprite.
Someone call
Liam Neeson: I’m taken. I’m captured like a planet in her gravitational pull, eclipsed by her once-in-a-lifetime darkness. She sings like a siren song as my ship, transfixed, drives closer to the sands of her lethal beach. She’s a Venus flytrap; I’m buzzing.
Our bodies
are a tableau of exquisite chaos, a tornado through a yard sale of limbs flung and strewn.
I’m Soulja
Boy and you’re thru the phone and I notice your new glasses and old smile and in an overwhelming moment of synesthetic…
