Did I ever tell you about the time I was arrested? I was eighteen, but just barely. My memory of the arrest has faded away flashes, symbolic traces, and a few smatterings of dialog. I remember how cold the handcuffs felt on my skinny wrists, how long my legs looked shoved into the backseat of a cruiser that smelled of sour milk, warm-from-car-heater vinyl, the acridity of alcohol that has been expelled from men’s bodies by route of the skin.
After gorging a literary diet consisting of coconut dyed pink, marshmallow filling, and high-fructose chocolate syrup for a week, I’m ready for something savory, something heavy, and something that will stick to my ribs.
There are two horses that live on the farm across from the office I’m currently temping in. Both are milk chocolate brown with white patches at their chests and ankles. Usually, when I see them, they’re grazing or looking off into space, their manes and tails blowing around in the wind. Today, though, they were running, chasing one another from one oak to another, practically diving into the shade together.
It’s late spring, so what do I want? A thousand hands, groping underneath my dress, that’s what I want. Everything way down deep feels slick, tight, ready.