Bob is driving a black convertible on city streets and is trying to end our affair. He says he can’t handle my zig-zag moods and jumping jack illogic. I’m holding on to the edge of his window shield, my body gliding alongside the car. Bob doesn’t believe that a girl can hold on and fly at the same time. But I’m living proof of it.
“Get in the car, Edie!” Bob says.
“If you dump me,” I say, “I’ll spread the word that you sell cheap dope that causes long-term amnesia and blood clots.”
“Get in the car, Edie!”
“If you dump me, I’ll send nude pictures of myself to each of your girlfriends. I mean before the breast implants.”
“Get in the car, Edie!”
“If you dump me, Bob, I’ll dig a tunnel under your backyard and poach there.”
“Get in the car, Edie.”
“Bob, you don’t understand. You’re the only guy I could wrap myself around like a hot pretzel and get off on tasting my own salt.”
Apparently, Bob doesn’t see the approaching red light. He swerves the car, crashes into a street light. The window shield is smashed. Bob suffers a slight concussion, major cuts to his face, and the loss of two front teeth.
Bob doesn’t remember everything about the accident.
I kept flying.
–
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Elimae, Smokelong Quarterly, This Zine Will Change Your Life, Matchbook, and elsewhere. He loves cats, dogs, and garage bands of the 60s.
Lead image: “Pretzels” (via Flickr user Ana Ulin)