#mickmacks

@pinkiepiebones Very proud of you son

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"I'll give you a minute," she said, buzzing away, because she needed a minute. 

The plates were overstocked with heavy eggs to fill the empty stomach. Yolk to line an empty chest, whites to mold the heart. Phones sat in the middle, no touching game. All was well. 

           2 AM crawls into Bangkok, leaving 3 PM behind in New York. She squeezes through the gate and taps on the glass to wave at the Thai guard – Golf, his name is. “Black Magic Woman” playing through his cell phone speakers is the only sound to break the night.

           She balances carefully along chalk lines, one foot before the other, to gracefully make her way to the Golden River Palace. She wraps the pillars in her cool breeze and slides her fingers through the waters, catching floating cigarette ask and making waves in the seas of time. She blows a kiss to shake the palm trees and quietly descends below the muddy banks.

           3 AM drizzles in on a raincloud and washes 2 away. He never meant to see her go, but her minutes dissolve into the drops. His passing rain doesn’t linger, but her silver touch is immortalized in the reflection of the night.

  I just had a weird other-worldly moment looking in the mirror in the outdoor show. It was almost like I was a stranger to my body which is almost true if you think about it. We see everybody else’s face and bodies more often throughout the day than we see our own. When we see reflections, it’s basically the opposite of us anyway.

  So I was looking in the mirror and for a second it felt like this isn’t me. This body is not me. It’s just a thing I live in -- an organism that my soul got stuck into to walk around in and to use how I please.

           She looks up to see the boy across the room staring back at her. Their eyes melt into each other, even from this great distance away. In a flash, she pictures their future. A drink at the bar and a night spent talking till the sunrise would lead to a crazy, passionate, magnetic love affair. They would have hot sex in all the strangest places possible and spend evenings star gazing. They would travel the country to share the world together and they would dream up names and faces for future children. They would fight about everything from the potential weather to whether or not that strange guy had been hitting on her, but at the end of the day they would still be together.

           Then one day she would be too tired and jaded while he spent too many nights at the bar. His parents wouldn't approve of her and she would get too wrapped up in work. They would try and try, but one day they would stop trying. He would stumble in one night at 2 AM and they would scream and throw things and cry. She would leave and slam the door with as much fire as their first kiss held and never look back. Years later he would spot her on the train with a wedding ring on her finger and he would wave and she would smile and then they would both turn back to their respective windows.

So she peels her eyes away from that boy across the room.

“That'll be all.” She tells the bartender.

         ‘Tis a sad day to see the unfinished business of a carnivorous, free-ranged other, carried away by my own two hands to be tossed into the trash.

         Destroyed.  Deteriorated.  Locked in the depths of the forever darkness, surrounded by black plastic skies.  That unfinished business, the charred scraps of Lionel Sternberger’s prized invention, was butchered and abandoned on a silver platter by that fleshy, cowardly man.  He demanded a bigger, meatier endeavor.  He entered the big leagues with falsified bravery.

           Yet, here I stand, with these cheesy thoughts and beefed up promises unfinished, garnished with lettuce and bloodied with condiments.  Torn with incisors and left to die.