I write a lot about pedophiles. I would break this up but I kinda don’t want to change my style. I’m inspired by Cormac McCarthy’s stream of consciousness.

During the fall of six o’clock, Teddy the Tractable observed the many marital potentials throughout the pit. A father tying three kids to his shirt hem and cuff, eyes darting. He seemed portent to snap. His temporal vein was as bright as the bags under his eyes and his daughter vibrated hyperactively with a balloon disturbing the spirit. Not an Elektra Complex, though. Teddy knew it wasn’t that. The baby in the carriage, probably just about a year, sucked on its thumb, which was attached to a tiny bottle. The girl dribbled the rubber on his dangling chain of keys and he eyed her, then huffed, then eyed a blank space that provided patience. Teddy rubbed the ringing out his ears. Perhaps his daughter would grow into him. He rose from the energy. Inflation afloat that stressed the serenity was a supplement to her nomination as well. Moments passed and his patience was already as cadaverous as the escalator being penetrated by the carriage. He feared fearing solitude, which would antagonize him with ideas of fear itself. It was a cycle at six o’clock, he knew. He sat in the pit, birthing the settlement of SPD he was home to. His own lethargy; his reassurance. He knew. A woman’s diamonds met the festive lights hanging from the second-storey balcony and he saw her flapper-painted face. Red lipstick, bright mouth, moderate smoke eyes. Her buttons pinned tight to her pea coat; her nails flossed like candy displays on Springdale in 1940. But she resembled strength. Sternness struck and stuck. The genetic strength of original labor workers; the supposed demeanor of that sooty mangabey. And her skin slid roughly under the tending to and creams. Beneath the feminism so present in gripping and grabbing husky crops and hauling them in sweaty bags for more humid work by their breeding mates, or husbands. Perhaps it was the ladylikeness of a civilly moving urban theatre arts performer, muscles cut through the forearm and the thighs, body probably stiff in a summer dress no matter the product radiance. They were all fighting for civility. Her arms were outspread in the relation of the Venn Diagram. But on the side where beating was less through love, the Nightingale rocked their equal distinction and performance. And they developed the same bone structure and they gave the same strength. Teddy shuddered, deciding that she was fading in potential. A fragile woman rushed in maroon pants. He let her go. He scratched his dirty head and carved the residue from his nails. Everything was yellow. The conurbation combusted like the West Side of town in 1994. Everything was far from flaccid. Eyes opened, necks sturdy. When the time arrived, he’d wonder how he succeeded a point so rejected; so low. She hadn’t even heard his voice, which would have drawn her in, let alone. He liked to believe he was well spoken. Monotonous and enunciating. She wouldn’t suspect the appearance but the appeal. But it was never the appeal but the impression. His ticket read ten o’clock when the matinee was over. A date. Loneliness inviting. Lowliness inviting. A big, serene date, balloons disturbing between but eventually setting his amorous masculinity free. Combustion like in 1994; jocularity like in 1940. He rubbed the ringing out his ears and smoothed his hair parted to the left. He saw purple at the corner of his eye. It was seven o’clock already. A whole day’s passed. Chimes rang. He flashed. Trickery understandably afloat. Teenagers planning on retreating to the garage.

As featured in The Poetic Convozine.

He poured milk into a tin cup, confirming that it, by its thickness, was spoiled. He scoffed, dumping it down the disposal, sending it wherever expired foods were accepted. The hairy cat food from May, the stale cheese from last week, the warm soda from two nights ago. Some being consumed it somewhere. He would have appreciated a reimbursement from that being, though. It was ten-forty and Alicia hadn’t returned from whatever errand she wove up to dodge the bland morning. The semester was weeks away but she wouldn’t register until it turned into seconds. Everything turned gray around his dark brown eyes, dark brown hair, dark brown voice. The only thing that was entirely appealing was his body, which wouldn’t have gained him a Calvin Klein spread; he was more of a layered type of guy, emotionally accepted by her. But he knew a fitted t-shirt about the size of Ponyboy’s would have been nice. Maybe a drizzle of water, too.

The main room was taken by the sounds of a late film so he didn’t care to keep his attention on it. His bladder was heavy from early dawn. Fortunately, it didn’t release on him, or under him, in his weakest state of sleepiness. He was hoping to get his daily cup of bone-strength before he went, though. A can of carnation milk, its lid peeled upward, sat on the side door. He contemplated for a half of a second and, after finishing the neutral pungency, ran to the bathroom where the duty was done. He sighed with gratification and returned to the kitchen the comforting occupation. Munchies, leftover pasta, microwave-convenient oatmeal. He chose the pasta, which would have been insipid beneath its peppered sauce and buttered spaghetti alone. There were half a container of cream cheese and five squares of Singles. He scoped the fridge. Garlic bread was the completion. It was ten-forty seven. He wondered what she was possibly doing. Dry cleaning, banking, the nice Jewish boy from the gym. The thought shook away when the microwave rang ready like cautioning his mind from overheating. The plate was as hot as a no-name pizza parlor. He waited a minute, gazing at the film that only spoke to itself.

“What’s your name?”

“Jerry Mulligan. What’s yours?”

“Milo Roberts.”

“Milo?”

“Yah, as in Venus Deux.”

No introduction was that typical. It was always a glance, a stare back, an interior smile until next time. And, even at the next time, names were too awfully awkward to exchange. Of course he wanted to know her name. A number was given for reasons unnamed and, next thing he knew, he was living with the smack-talking clerk who took weekend shifts at the gas station and nights in her Snuggie. He touched the plate as the characters spoke. Still torrid. He waited. He always waited. Waited and allowed. But close enough so that Alicia wasn’t suspicious. He was tactfully intact. He was constantly reminding. He was eyeballing in a bedroom full of salivating men with his fingers to his beard.

He was in love with the idea of loving her since she, of all misinterpretations and mistakes, was the first he actually tolerated. Any given perfection was obvious and appreciated. And she liked him, too. But it was only intuition for he was a nine near the crowded bullseye. She had to seize the moment. It was all in his untampered with mentality. His underconfidence, his sense of humor, his common ground under an open mind. Not to mention his body again, which was comically retching in his underconfident open mind. It was all that made him articulate and interesting, though. And she, naturally, was a plexus so complex; however, one that made so much sense that he was a fourth grader beginning long division; a fourth-grade mathlete introduced to long division. He much rathered figuring her out as she, at one point, was intrigued by him. But she seized another moment whether she still found herself leaning into his intricacies or not. Her waning impression stirred suspicion.

“Oh, you mean the party’s just you and me.”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, I see. Well that’s kind of a little joke. Isn’t it?”

A joke it was, what with their lack of pickiness. They were so easy together, so diplomatic unlike the ruins of a reputable relationship. There was no substance. No drugs, no alcohol. He preferred milkshakes and water. He rationed the spices for food while everything else depreciated.

His stomach grumbled in flustering rounds, mangling the milk in an attempt toward proper digestion. He held it stiffly as to control the turbulence. It passed and he touched the warm plate again. Suddenly, the pasta wasn’t appetizing and he realized where Alicia, and the cat, was.

Wrote this three or four years ago about a pedophile in my neighborhood. This is the second edit. Tell me what you think.

Her gold hair was grazed back. I believed it was steaming wet or just being flirted with by the annual West Nile mosquitoes. Her skin was an even dark like mine but she wasn’t from the East. She was just summer-tanned and tall and dark and very attractive. She closely resembled the radiance of Aishwayiya Rai. I caught a glimpse of her figure through the rearview as she lunged onto the sidewalk. She was shaped like her, too.

“Excuse me,” I curtseyed, “I spoke to you the other day..”

She faced me with immediate bluntness, her eyes clawing at my tanned face. She took a step back and scrutinized my hands; stabbed at my soul.

“No..” she said nicely.

“Oh.. no?” I asked.

She rushed, knowing she had no business under the streetlight of a dark road being driven on by a stranger. I put the car in gear and glided the wheels.

“Oh.. maybe it was someone else?” I persisted.

“Maybe..” she sang before lashing around the corner.

I lost her. Another tally of my attempts.

“Oh, okay. It was someone else then.” I quickly called, convincing her and myself that I had someone to see.

I exhaled, disappointed and zipping my pants. I wondered if she felt remorse for the next candidate. She slowed her step as she came close to a Chinese restaurant, smiling at the welcoming family whose shrill expressions apparently recognized her. Her vibrancy shone through her brevity; her intake seemed indulgent. Maybe I wanted Chinese, too.

Cars rushed like it was Friday night but the empty roads made the brief radio stations and speeding lights appear to be in a drone. Everything was dead in the lanes and the terraces. The parking lots and concert parks were vacant. The teenage excitement of lazy freedom rotted, too.

I skulked through avenues where dames were busy watching marathons or exfoliating, and embraced their lone company instead. My part lifted and, within minutes, became flaccid again.

It was midnight at the end of August. There was no reason for faith. Pink lights peered through soft yellow curtains and blood rushed to my center again. Their doors were locked and their emergency calls were armed. I relaxed and continued to admire like a sixteen year old enlightened by Times Square.

I pulled into a plaza, searching for any sudden movement. A DJ, one probably unable to control his musical effusiveness, exalted the premiere of a single by an artist named Beck. He was a prodigy with high expectations. I lowered his moping as my heated breath protruded. I soaked my sweaty forehead in the cuff of my button-down, becoming a presentable unmarried bachelor. I was single and updated and nonconforming. I was given halting respect and devotion. I was given attachment by stupid college girls hoping to end up in a trusting union.

“Good night, darling.” I improvised charmingly.

She smiled at my introduction a smile I was opposed to. She had gaps and yellow spots and I was pretty sure I smelled garlic. The streetlight flickered above her. She was more attractive in the obscurity.

I shamelessly showed all of my teeth, persistently yielding beside her.

“It’s just about midnight so that’s ‘good morning’ to you.” she replied.

She ran her left hand across her cluttered face, taking the first signs of autumn air in.

“It’s one in the morning. Do you know where your outings are?” she flirted.

I told her I was heading to the beach and asked what was up with her. My Hindi-Urdu accent conquered the slang and I kept my eyes on her to conceal the embarrassment.

She returned, “I thought it’d be fun to dwell in danger. I just can’t take the long way home no matter how well-lit it is.”

She was poetic and restless. I grew nervous.

“Why be so careless? You really should be safe.”

She glared at me playfully with her hands on her hips. I pouted like a teenage boy. She was small, like my mother, and exotic, like my sister, walking with a twist as her long, maroon hair tangled and disappeared the in spacey darkness behind her. Her slim arm swung with a lanyard wrapped around her wrist. She held a small clutch in her left hand with debonair and carelessness. Her name was engraved on the lanyard in hot pink. I peered but saw nothing.

“I’d never get into a car with a strange man.” she shared.

I smiled at her coy and confused. She smirked at me slyly, exuding her feminism. I let her strut a few steps ahead of me. Her derriere switched and cleaved.

The lights flickered. Her name was revealed.

My car purred virulently as she appeared to ponder on her next move. She looked at the sky, her eyes nonchalant and cool. I unzipped my fly to let my part breathe and thought of the safest manner to continue our rendezvous. She compulsively adjusted the lanyard on her wrist, glancing at me discretely to make sure I was still drawn. I smiled to myself, thinking, Donna, don’t you worry. I am.

She wasn’t flashy. Her purse was Coach underneath the broken leather and dingy, frayed handle. Her entire wardrobe was remarkably in designer. She finally scoffed, fiddling with her Burberry ear rings as if she had a more exciting life to tend to.

“I advise you don’t wear that out here,” I led, “With all the muggers and the winos, who knows what would happen in a fit to obtain gold?”

She finished adjusting and tapped her accessory with a smile, satisfied.

I felt the introduction rejecting. I was flailing like a fish being wounded out of water on the first day being declared a smolt. I couldn’t have been reduced anymore. She wasn’t playing hard to get; she just wasn’t buying it.

I reappeared to her, being given a second chance to attain her. I banished all my uncanny behavior and faced her insouciance courageously. I pushed further. It was easier done than said. Trust relayed in helpless lugging food shoppers and dependent men holding begging signs in front of department stores. It happened in living rooms where desperate teenagers reluctantly canoodled. It occurred in homes where hopeful wives in emotionally empty marriages felt under duress. It happened every night at the wake of monophobia but I wasn’t a criminal. They needed me. They depended on my loyalty and had high hopes for the confidence that came with it. They decided by themselves and submitted for themselves, for themselves, and then pled pitifully with spontaneous shame and weakness.

I only served to be loyal and persistent. I wasn’t a criminal. I was trusting with a hint of selfishness.

“Well, aren’t you wise..” she snared.

“I’m only trying to help. Information builds the mind.”

“Then I should be a genius,” she exasperated with a jackass of a laugh, “I don’t know how much more help I can get! I don’t take candy from strangers. I check my items at the drive-thru. I try to be engaging. It doesn’t mean shit.”

“I’m sure you’re great.” I said.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” she said sarcastically, “People just don’t stick around. I want to try to smile more often. Maybe it’s my gravitas nature.”

“Donna..” I chuckled, “You’re fine. Take it from me.”

She faced me, side-stepping with her wrists on her tailbone. She smiled like a little girl, her chest high and innocent. I became aroused when a woman called me by my name, too. But it had been years. My wife didn’t even know me anymore.

“You think so, huh?”

“Yes, I do.”

She turned straight ahead, holding her hands in front of her and walking slowly. She looked at the ground. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The angst absorbed us. It depressed my efforts. My center stiffened anxiously.

“You can trust me, you know. My word is official. My co-workers call me—”

“It’s not flattering to talk about yourself, John.” she said, leaning her head and her eyes over at me whimsically.

I looked down at my nametag, scorning myself for forgetting to take the thing off.

“Okay, okay.” I beseeched flirtatiously.

She twiddled with the lanyard and wedged the clutch between her side and her elbow. I felt myself swimming back, my fins diligent and aching. She was at ease. She was in a place that required wooing. I targeted the opening with drive. It was the final chapter toward her trusting and I’d prove that I wouldn’t get lost. I wouldn’t be ridded of. I was devotional. I had to tread toward her quickly and carefully like a teenage girl botching her purity and I’d lead her to my safekeeping like a good Samaritan with better finances. She wore a begging sign basically on her forehead.

I floated in her wonder of me; her ambivalence of either being too lurking or too good to be true. I was the typical man just then. Only time would tell. I was the trifling man who was either loyal or misleading. I was loyal until I reached climax. And then the task was over and the reward didn’t excite me anymore.

She sighed, shivering like it was below fifty. She avoided my eyes like preoccupation mattered more. It was more important than my oncoming questions. She had a more exciting life to tend to. I was to prove myself steadfast.

She unbuttoned her pouch with a soothing pop that broke the silence along with my nerves. And the streetlights flickered on and I recoiled.

I eagerly brainstormed on ways to court without appearing like a creep. Meanwhile, the silence compensated for my nervous stuttering and the front of my pants bulging uncontrollably and my pits soaking and it seeping down my sides.

I loitered, waiting to egress into feeling less intimidated by my task. I drove beside her. She stopped, knowing I would too and shook her hair behind her. Then, with all the propriety in the world, she placed her clutch on the ground, crouching, reaching in, and retrieving a long velvet box. She flipped it open, and then twisted around, groping her skintight back pocket for something. She slipped a tiny straw out and sounded off discordantly, holding the velvet box out on her fingertips as if it were gold. She brushed her feathery hair from her forehead, refreshed.

We continued.

Outdated festive lights sprinkled on artificial trees. They buzzed and disappeared in between the branches and around the bark. She glanced at the shoppes selling lavish things.

“You don’t want anything from me.” she mumbled.

But my flaccidity disagreed.

Marriage was just the reason loyalty was fickle so I remained disconnected; disconnected and independent and too disgusted with disappointment to submit to accommodating for someone else. I was too proud for a lifetime of halting respect. I was too in touch with reality to not want to be touched for more than that of simple pleasure.

No one relived euphoria. It was simply a selfish paradox. The guilt panged and then the bloodthirsty search for alleviation returned to its place.

I recalled a saying concerning cows and milk. I needed to use the cow, not the lumbering load of gallons of milk. People weren’t too responding to the helpless in America, I quickly learned. I looked out for myself and the arousal of needy women.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I insisted.

She smiled, “For one, I’m afraid you’ll get lovesick.”

“Fine,” I said, “But the gist of you is taunting.

She paused, buying time and making me more eager than I had started out with. I had to say something. I had to waft her up swiftly like Godzilla. But her dallying made it easy. She was bound to relent. Her sneaky smile said it all.

And then it came to me spontaneously.

“Okay,” she finally said, “My name isn’t Donna and yours isn’t John. Or is it, Mr. Doe?”

“My name is John.” I insisted with an inveigling smirk.

“Okay, then my name is Donna.”

“It’s nice to formally acquaint yourself with me.” I said reaching my hand out.

She rejected me with stiff eyes. I maneuvered back to the wheel. I reached for the keys, my nervous hands jangling around them, and shut the engine off. She followed my lead by sitting on the ground. I second-guessed snatching her.

We were comfortable and she was confirming. She confirmed she had my trust. Her crossed legs opened out to me and my body trembled readily.

I took my tool out. My seat rocked as I fumbled with the button. Her insularity didn’t observe.

“You know. Big cities like these love people who move slowly.” I said in my most affable voice. A luring voice of an adult easing his important way through adolescent influence.

“Really? I haven’t gotten that.” she inquired.

“No, yeah,” I corrected, “It’s all about taking the time to make sure the ads get out and the right bagels get shipped.”

“Raisin with strawberry cream cheese,” she chanted, “It makes sense. I’ll remember that.”

She pondered for a moment. I noticed it in her brows.

“Yeah,” I continued, “And once these small-talk workers catch you walking their industrial streets this late in the night, their defensive shotguns wouldn’t be so pleasant.”

She listened.

“You should find a bus.” I said.

She gazed at the ground almost miserably. The streetlights flickered.

“Your smile is amazing.” I said as if I had just then realized it.

“Really?”

She looked up.

“Yes, and you have the most striking eyes.”

She was probably blushing. I wasn’t sure. She was a loser to my most mundane statements.

I sighed, looking over the dashboard into a closed parking lot past an alleyway. I imagined the view to be like a sunset and I was Ethan Hawke with a romantic incentive. I wondered how she could have denied my robust body—healthy biceps; torso like a stallion’s.

And with a sensitive sigh as if I had completed a montage for my appreciation for life, I nonchalantly turned my head over to her.

“Seriously, do you need a ride?” I concerned.

She warmly grinned like a child.

“I do..” she said lowly and secretly as if she knew I was caretaking.

She lurked into the vehicle, staring at me in the eyes for the first time. I disregarded her crystal blues and a scar on her left cheek. Her weakness was only worthy.

With all absolution, I drove forward. Perhaps raisin bagels and strawberry cream cheese awaited us.

Prompt: Start the story off with a line from a song.

I found myself facedown in a ditch, booze in my hair, blood on my lips. The Chicago rain never felt so good on cushioning and cool trash bags. I couldn’t find that kind of panacea anywhere if Zeah’s happiness depended on it. She’d have raised all forms of jealousy and hell to smite me for accessing it before her. I mingled with God for a moment and surfaced all the aches in my tender head. Loud synthesizers rang, delayed from somewhere late that night. Bass vibrated my body. I couldn’t move my cheekbone.

As I stumbled onto the first route out the alleyway, I saw everything vacant and macabre.

My teeth, painted by a toothless crater, was painless.

I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I couldn’t even see.

A man rushing with business time was just a man of corporality. A girl in heels was just off to a dance.

The sky was a solid light blue and so patronizingly bright. I missed her black headlights. They were intruding while fostering comfort and wellbeing. It was her mindset of knowing what she wanted and wanting to alleviate everyone. She knew what was best. She was confident enough to attain it.

She knew what was best for her.

She was stubborn and needy.

She was sensitive and proud.

And I wasn’t for her.

I damned it all. I overstepped my scuffed Floreshein shoes, swerving the strip in my head and seeing ice cone cartoons on repulsive vending carts, lean girls in dresses not worth admiring, and pirated music outlining carpets on the curb not worth inquiring.

She taught me diligence and timing. She showed me how to be patient while I left her waiting up in our apartment all that year. She envied my personal sense of freedom and euphoria.

There was no one else for me but her.

She was off, driving and never minding that she told me to wait.

The next morning, Perpetua awoke early and showered quietly. She did the same at Hunter’s house that one summer. She tossed and turned until three once more but felt fully charged as the sun peeked underneath the door slit. She figured it was because she was too focused on her nerves and getting out of the house. Her attitude had defaulted overnight. She didn’t know what it was but caught herself wanting to pace and then touch her face and then pull her fingers. She vaguely remembered a dream that night. She was Woody Allen’s Sleeper as Luna and she spun and ran and demanded to be taken back to her home.

She saw it once in passing when her mother watched it while she dozed in and out. Her brother and sister lied on top of her snoring. It was a Friday like many Fridays they went into the Blockbuster and ran around choosing a movie of their preference. Their record was two and a half of a film starting at seven before their mother stretched out, slovenly hugging their leftover snacks and tuning into something more mature. Perpetua’s body was stiff under the brother. All she could do was blink at the television and feel the tiny, irritating circulation cut-offs in her arms and legs. And then she fell asleep. She wondered how and why it resurfaced and led her to feel underconfident again. A high school football game played on the television that night. She wasn’t even thinking about New York or simple science-fiction or anything. She felt stuck in the small office she and Hunter slept in. She no longer looked forward to discussing the fiancé’s culinary accomplishments; she was afraid of running into Clark and having to laugh about something or anything. She crept in the living room to grab her purse and returned to the office, staring at the ground, daydreaming about her night dream running in the woods and abandoned warehouses cluttered with art. Hunter snore loudly. It reminded her of that summer.

She folded the sleeping bag and stood it by the door and jerked backward as the door swung in her face.

“Good morning! Oh, the Huntsman still sleeps. Come on, I made a four-course breakfast. Me. All me.”

Perpetua chuckled lightly. She regretted not being jumpier in the morning but wished he understood that not everyone was like him. She did all the work that night. She executed a fine first impression. And since their friendship was established, there had to be rules comprehended. She believed that Clark that was realistic as Hunter. She was nervous but they could develop a relationship like she and her family or she and Hunter. He just had to give back. She understood his preference for conversation; she had a preference for being left alone. But she knew that, had he not knocked on her door that morning, she would have felt unwelcomed and hated. Yet, if she was in his position, she would’ve felt that her duty was done providing shelter. So it was just a matter of gestures and testing.

She sat at the table, taking a deep breath, preparing herself for the unwill she developed. She didn’t know what to inquire about without appearing redundant or even pestering. It seemed everything was covered that night. She felt they needed a bit of a hiatus. She figured a quiet morning wouldn’t be so bad. They couldn’t have declared her rude for being a bit reticent in the morning.

Most importantly, she didn’t know what to say to Hunter. After all her highlighting of Mikale, she a felt a need to compliment him in a compensating way. He didn’t deserve to feel forgotten or disposed of especially when the truth was just the opposite.

But she couldn’t smother him.

Reassuring him would only cause a setback that put him in control to move on with closure. He wasn’t like Sammy having a pseudo-maturing agenda; she would never expect him to be disingenuous toward her feelings that he knew was true. But he would surely understand that what they were doing was distressing and decide that it was okay that they loved and just weren’t meant to be. And Perpetua couldn’t let him go without watching him convulse with the torment of focusing her opaque but closely unambiguous love first. He had to make it clear for himself and understand how much he actually meant to her and walk away with a bit of a grudge against the whole thing that they couldn’t be.

But she couldn’t find herself crying before him, her palms face-up, her voice trembling and exclaiming, “I love you.” so it that could register in him and make him feel okay with the idea as if they were traversing chaos and strenuous exertion and timing that was just too different.

And she wouldn’t scare him with a histrionic, unnecessary monologue about their history and her needs. She would be the hare procrastinating because of all the races she succeeded, there was nothing special at the end of it, anyway. They all reduced her to tanning on a boulder with her ankle over her knee, waiting for a reason to actually try.

And Hunter was her reason but he was aloof against her hyperactive heart. He was bereft of the rarity of the opportunity. He was bereft of curiosity sidelined with distance. So she would preview the quick breakaway so that he would neither sense that it wasn’t completely best nor sense feeling completely unwelcomed.

He was close to initiating the revelation; close to walking away with a sulking head, depressed yet self-fulfilling. But she couldn’t find him deciding for himself that it wasn’t best.

She feared that he would initiate the revelation without her having to compliment him. And he would walk away, his head sullen with depressed yet self-fulfilling closure. And she needed the linger because that way he’d genuinely understand how much they meant to her as a pair.

Perpetua was determined to make Miles normal again. He inquired where he was as it became stranger amidst pretentious art-viewers and metallic fabric. She was already captivated by him before he was brainwashed so she would go through the proper process.

It was just a matter of gestures and testing. And glances and tones. And levels of opaqueness. And self-hatred and J’esprit-d’escalier. A true war within himself. And accounts like the one the night before where he should’ve reached a revelation and he should’ve decided for himself because he was reminded that it wasn’t best and he wasn’t welcomed. But she would use how emotionally unabashed she was with him and sadistically draw him back, all the while protecting herself physically so that he did not get any additional ideas. And anyway, he didn’t deserve to only have her physically. She couldn’t only give herself to him physically. Only he deserved to make his way back to her by interpreting her mind full of an incentive for loving him because she didn’t want anyone but him.

She stopped twiddling her thumbs and cut the omelet in half as he walked in rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

The next morning, Perpetua awoke early and showered quietly. She did the same at Hunter’s house that one summer. She tossed and turned until three once more but felt fully charged as the sun peeked underneath the door slit. She figured it was because she was too focused on her nerves and getting out of the house. Her attitude had defaulted overnight. She didn’t know what it was but caught herself wanting to pace and then touch her face and then pull her fingers. She vaguely remembered a dream that night. She was Woody Allen’s Sleeper as Luna and she spun and ran and demanded to be taken back to her home.

She saw it once in passing when her mother watched it while she dozed in and out. Her brother and sister lied on top of her snoring. It was a Friday like many Fridays they went into the Blockbuster and ran around choosing a movie of their preference. Their record was two and a half of a film starting at seven before their mother stretched out, slovenly hugging their leftover snacks and tuning into something more mature. Perpetua’s body was stiff under the brother. All she could do was blink at the television and feel the tiny, irritating circulation cut-offs in her arms and legs. And then she fell asleep. She wondered how and why it resurfaced and led her to feel underconfident again. A high school football game played on the television that night. She wasn’t even thinking about New York or simple science-fiction or anything. She felt stuck in the small office she and Hunter slept in. She no longer looked forward to discussing the fiancé’s culinary accomplishments; she was afraid of running into Clark and having to laugh about something or anything. She crept in the living room to grab her purse and returned to the office, staring at the ground, daydreaming about her night dream running in the woods and abandoned warehouses cluttered with art. Hunter snore loudly. It reminded her of that summer.

She folded the sleeping bag and stood it by the door and jerked backward as the door swung in her face.

“Good morning! Oh, the Huntsman still sleeps. Come on, I made a four-course breakfast. Me. All me.”

Perpetua chuckled lightly. She regretted not being jumpier in the morning but wished he understood that not everyone was like him. She did all the work that night. She executed a fine first impression. And since their friendship was established, there had to be rules comprehended. She believed that Clark that was realistic as Hunter. She was nervous but they could develop a relationship like she and her family or she and Hunter. He just had to give back. She understood his preference for conversation; she had a preference for being left alone. But she knew that, had he not knocked on her door that morning, she would have felt unwelcomed and hated. Yet, if she was in his position, she would’ve felt that her duty was done providing shelter. So it was just a matter of gestures and testing.

She sat at the table, taking a deep breath, preparing herself for the unwill she developed. She didn’t know what to inquire about without appearing redundant or even pestering. It seemed everything was covered that night. She felt they needed a bit of a hiatus. She figured a quiet morning wouldn’t be so bad. They couldn’t have declared her rude for being a bit reticent in the morning.

Most importantly, she didn’t know what to say to Hunter. After all her highlighting of Mikale, she a felt a need to compliment him in a compensating way. He didn’t deserve to feel forgotten or disposed of especially when the truth was just the opposite. But reassuring him would only cause a setback that put him in control to move on with closure. He wasn’t like Sammy having a pseudo-maturing agenda; she would never expect him to be disingenuous toward her feelings that he knew was true. But he would surely understand that what they were doing was distressing and decide that it was okay that they loved and just weren’t meant to be. And Perpetua couldn’t let him go without watching him convulse with the torment of focusing her opaque but closely unambiguous love first. He had to make it clear for himself and understand how much he actually meant to her and walk away with a bit of a grudge against the whole thing that they couldn’t be.

She also feared that he would initiate the revelation without her having to compliment him. And he would walk away, his head sullen with depressed yet self-fulfilling closure. She wanted the linger. She needed him to genuinely figure it out on his own.

She couldn’t find herself crying before him, her palms face-up, her voice trembling and exclaiming, “I love you.” so it that could register in him and make him feel okay with the idea as if they were traversing chaos and strenuous exertion and timing that was just too different.

She couldn’t find him deciding for himself.

Perpetua was determined to make Miles normal again. He inquired where he was as it became stranger amidst pretentious art-viewers and metallic fabric.

And she was already captivated by him before he was brainwashed so she would go through the proper process.

She wouldn’t scare him with a histrionic, unnecessary monologue about their history and her needs. She would be the hare procrastinating because of all the races she succeeded, there was nothing special at the end of it, anyway. They all reduced her to tanning on a boulder with her ankle over her knee, waiting for a reason to actually try.

And Hunter was her reason but he was aloof at the moment. He was bereft of the rarity of the opportunity. He was close to initiating the revelation; close to walking away with a sulking head, depressed yet self-fulfilling. So she would preview the quick breakaway so that he would neither sense that it wasn’t completely best nor sense feeling completely unwelcomed.

It was just a matter of gestures and testing. And glances and tones. And accounts like the one the night before where he should’ve reached a revelation and he should’ve decided for himself because he was reminded that it wasn’t best and he wasn’t welcomed. But she would use how emotionally unabashed she was with him and sadistically draw him back, all the while protecting herself physically so that he did not get any additional ideas. And anyway, he didn’t deserve to only have her physically. She couldn’t only give herself to him physically. Only he deserved to make his way back to her by interpreting her mind full of an incentive for loving him because she didn’t want anyone but him.

She stopped twiddling her thumbs and cut the omelet in half as he walked in rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Prompt: Write a story about a home disappearing.

My brother stood in the middle of a bed-made basketball court. He shivered, holding his middle like he did when he came out the shower. He never liked towels and never wore underwear, like I; just the Marvel brands. But the thin white Hanes clung to his tight groin and love handles. He peered at the hoop four feet above. We accumulated twenty-five inches that week. I watched him, tearing not because of emotion but because the air was so cold. I never cried. I ran. My jacket came off as well as my top, and I hugged him like homesickness told me to. I hugged his bare body, cocooning his five-year developed limbs around mine. I ran selfishly in my shoes as his toes collapsed blue over my arms. “Let me in!” I told the receptionist. But she stared. “Let me in!” I shouted. Her glass window shielded her. Her microphone stood by her face as dazed as she. I sat him on the heater beside the sign that prohibited it. I hugged him and rubbed his legs. I hovered over him on the wet floor, his body outstretched like he was the independent variable. He seized limply for he was being seized by Satan, and for a split second, everyone we knew watched us in shock or disgust. I thought mouth-to-mouth would have worked. Red seeped around him. He shut down like he was supposed to. The receptionist appeared behind me, her hands clasped calmly and curiously on her thighs. I told her to watch him. She did, cradling his body like he was her own. I ran to the court, my shoes getting lost in the freezing ice. My father glanced at me. I didn’t know the man who led him but I retrieved the pistol wedged in my marooned backside and counted the seconds it took for the bullet to cram into his cerebellum. He fell and I envisioned tying his arms to his legs and stretching the band around his neck, struggling it down to his center while my father thanked me with an air of business. “You’re welcome.” I said. But my mother appeared dazed, rocking my brother’s corpse and staring at me like the microphone, for she was growing louder as her anger toward me turned to ire. “Arrest her!” she demanded, “She stole him!” And two cops shoved me into a car. He awoke and I was on my knees, warming his standing body with my red incensed palms. “Don’t cry,” I infuriated, “Don’t you cry. I’m coming back. Wherever you sleep tonight, I’m in the next room.”

And then I awoke, blood seeping through my pillow, the draft inviting itself onto my cold toes, my back moist from urination. I released my grip from my feminine center and wiped my marooned nose. I crept into the hall and watched my mother breath lightly, her arms wrapped around a pillow as my brother snored on top of her.

Prompt: Write a piece ending in, “And then the kid ran.”

The bikes dripped wet on the verge of rusting like old zippers. Old zippers tugged at when rushing to play kickball in the sun; old zippers yanked on when the brisk winter arrived. I watched the thunder light the sky. The clouds previewed strongly. The rising sun would deliver perspiration. He tapped my elbow and laughed aloud, “But I was like, ‘There’s no way I’m jumping in!’ He looked at me like, ‘You gonna jump in.’” I chuckled automatically and sucked the sugar of a Tootsie Pop in. His bellow decreased into a cackle, which fell into a turgid smile that remembered fondly. We were adults, the day marking my own rite. We hadn’t submitted to corporate labor or submitted documents that displayed our capricious education. The town looked down on us. We were smaller products of its compactness. It can’t keep me. I always thought but I was just like my father. The shutters remained split from a hurricane in 2002, six years after I was born, my brain imprinting the still damage and understanding that fixing wasn’t permanent. My zipper ceased to close my pants. He tapped my elbow again. “And listen to this! His mother came, and then the kid ran!”

Prompt: Write a piece about the color red turning into blue.

I was left in shock every time she transitioned into a calm. Her tears became wet like refreshing morning dew, her hands trembled like bodies having sorbet. I never knew whether to grasp them or leave them be but I knew I had to decide when they began ticking toward me like a skipping disc or a broken machine. “You don’t love me.” she yelled moments before. This time, she told me not to leave. I stared at them in confused disgust. “No, mom,” I said, “Just stop.” I never knew what else to say but my intonation hoped she would. She never did. Her incensed blush overtook me and I stood sturdier than wood watching her. Her eyes glaring like lava, stabbed each time like a successful serial killer. But I never died. I just allowed it and squirmed. She mentally murdered and I cringed later as it crossed my mind. She would descend and my state of panic struck me. Her hands trembled like my chest on mornings when we’d embark on picnics in pastures sheeted in refreshing dew. I watched her carefully, her frantic shoulders settling on a soft ceil fog just above our hardwood floors. It flowed sickly like a sea throughout the room. I took her hands and let her fall on me.