Twisterella

Together we stood at the edge of the universe, or should I say the Edge of the Universe, as most markedly designated smoke spots are named. She named it as such, most likely because the feeling you get when perched on the wooden railing, just at the tip of the northern embankment. It perfectly framed the view she obviously took me to see. Los Angeles looks...quiet...from there. With her small fingers, she danced her hands up and down the distant buildings and lights, describing the places she’d fly.

How many can fly? The sort of person that can fill themselves up with an intoxicant and float their consciousness 20 miles away into the smoggy cesspool of desolation and guilt. And lust. And fuck me I’m flying too. I jutted my chin out, barely noticing the horizon become a nearsighted blur, and let my body fall the 10 feet it takes to come to a complete roll. I blasted through trees, boulders, and the occasional fauna. 

“Goodbye, Sarah!” I shouted behind me.

“Okay, but, like, I’m taking an Uber home.”

I still sensed her - tortoise shell frames and all - standing behind me as I rolled. She told me about the day her father passed, and what it was like to come home to tragedy. Why could I still hear her? Did I develop some super, post-molecular hearing whilst crumbling on the Edge of the Universe?

I finally came to a stop, but I wasn’t in Los Angeles. I was barely on Earth. I opened my eyes completely and balled my chubby hands into fists. I thought, and stay with me now, that if I started punching wildly into that dark abyss I’d burst my way out. But there was nothing to punch. There was nothing to touch. Or hear. Or believe.

Back there, where Sarah leaned against that rotting oak, where I watched the concrete outline the sky with lights, THAT wasn’t the edge. I was at the edge. I was finally someplace I could think and breathe. And melt.