Planet Soul
The Virgo
‘I feel like this is the ‘pop art’ room. The dining room is much more noir.’
Looking back, the signs were there.
At the start, it was barely detectable, a blip on the radar. Your relationship an unsinkable battleship — unfazed. Quirks, you called them. Endearing, even.
You’re driving with a group of friends to a bar; he’s at the wheel, dangling a cigarette between his fingers. Suddenly, he lurches his head forward, tattooed knuckles choking the wheel. You see his pupils dilate in eyes, now turned skyward, you know so well.
“Peregrine falcon.”
It’s out like a whip. You’re not sure if you’ve heard him correctly. Concerned, you touch his arm. Was it a seizure?
“Not common in these parts.”
You swallow. Is he in pain? You turn to face the back of the car — no one’s noticed a thing. The horn blares.
“LEARN TO DRIVE AND EAT TEN DICKS, MOTHERFUCKER!”
He’s back. It’s over. You breathe deeply. It doesn’t even make it into your journal that night.
And so it goes. The episodes occur more frequently. Always subtle. You notice him licking his forefinger to turn the page of a dog-eared copy of Hot VWs. The next week…
