Feb 12, 2006
a short story told in the bent ear of a friend
She was a girl who liked to hold her breath. She liked to see her face turn blue before it all went black. He was a boy who liked ever more piercings on his face and on his body. He liked to say he could never feel a thing when the metal went in. Blueskin met Metal in a bar in DUMBO. Blueskin was lighting matches off her teeth. Metal was finding oblivion in marathon shots of Jack. Each of them was quiet and each of them was alone. Blueskin started a small but uncontrolled napkin fire. Metal helped her put it out it with a glass of water. They liked the way their eyes glinted in the moment before the fire was doused. What’s that old saying? “There’s nothing like a fire to break the ice.” They talked like words were dollar bills laid on the bar. In the spaces, in the silence they pondered their similarities. They both liked the taste of salt overload and the sound of Velcro coming apart. She liked to bury her head in her pillow each morning to avoid the sunrise. He always shaved the right side of his face before the left. She always painted her toenails the color of her mood. He never asked for anyone for anything. Except for that night when he asked her for her phone number. Except for that night, they never saw each other again.