Ophelia is my sister under my eye’s skin. Right under the cornea she sits in a giant plush chair, waiting for the water to rise and drown her in her pretty pale dress. Old scars line her white skin but she smiles, imagining the colour of her flaming coffin, picturing morbid fantasies of lovers and stars. Her eyes are violet and green, the way mine never will be, and her hair is somehow perfectly coiffed in spite of her general dishevelment. All her hems are tattered, mimicking the flutter of my heartbeat when his hand touches mine.
Kyle was practically voiceless, as expected. We conversed with notes scrawled on a flip-pad notebook back and forth across a crowded booth table. Poetry went well, nicely put turns of phrase rolling mostly off the stage into the audience to break like a wave when I discovered unexpected people there. The couple who were stripping me at SinCity were present. I have phone-numbers now and more proof that we mesh well. The two of them are a delightful couple, they let me in like I’ve always been there in spite of the fact that I’m shy in odd ways. (My bra was undone enough times last time to drive me away dancing. Also, nipple tweaking is just not something you do to me. They want to be torn off when it happens.) To combat this, that he can clip a bra together with his teeth impresses me unduly. I want to find a woman who will let me practise this. I imagine much laughter and far too many instances of wiping drool from their back. I never knew it was possible. Obviously my imagination needs either a kickstart or a boot to the head. The latter seems more likely, what with my inadequate ability to easily or pleasantly think of fantasies.