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“Wait, I’m sorry,” Marisol started shaking her hands. “YOU get to make a rule.”
She pointed at the woman.
“A rule?”
“Yeah, earlier I said best but I meant first. The first storyteller makes the rules of the game. Liiike, if you want a theme for the night, you know, only stories about worst firsts or a story about how you got here,’” she held her hands out. ”We can all do the same thing.”
“Ok. Umm.”
“We can make suggestions.”
“It’s ok. I have an idea. Since you’re guessing, I imagine you want a few extra details and to challenge me as well.”
“Definitely,” Marisol said, grinning.
“After the first story, I’ll let you ask me one question to get clarity. Only one question before you have to guess at the end.”
“As a group?”
“Hmm. I thought individually, but group is more pressure. Kind of fun.”
Marisol beamed and sat upright in a fawning position, leaning her body closer to the woman. Jack began to watch them.
“A group,” Jack said. “Then we would have to deliberate in front of you.”
“Well, then maybe you’d sneak a peek at my reactions and I’d give it away.”
“Something bit me,” David said.
“No, David, it’s the acid.”
“You’re on acid?”
“No, something bit me look.’
David began to lift his pants above his ankle.
“There’s a spider in the cabin,” Lilian said.
“What?” Marisol said.
“Wait, you guys are all on acid?”
“Look,” David said.
There was a tiny red welt, like a mosquito bite.
“It was warm earlier. Were you out?”The woman asked.
The assurance of the question was dominating.
“I think I will have a glass of wine,” the woman said. “Just to catch up slightly if everyone is on acid.”
She stood and Marisol mirrored her happy to pour her a glass. David looked at his leg and saw a scrape where there had been a bite. There was no welt, it was a scrape from when he had climbed the tree earlier. The woman stared at the empty piece of foil on the table. Nothing left. They’re all on acid.

“At the risk of sounding naive,” I began, “I was wondering if it’s all right if I break the tension in the room. I know I have to spend the night here and I am grateful but I am also having trouble with the silence.”
They had been sitting for ten minutes; a world record. I wasn’t sure what direction to go but I could not sit at this fireplace for hours while the world turned black. I needed entertainment, solace. His attention was held by the fire. I was surprised by his neglect of me, truly. It was as if I wasn’t even in the room.
“Of course,” he said, barely turning his attention back to me.
I was sitting up, hands folded in between my legs, a masculine stance. Swallowing hard, I began, “Maybe we can get to know each other.”
I was not used to such apathy. We are mourning, I tried to remind myself, but I also couldn’t stand the chill. Maybe this was just valor, but it felt stifling.
“Sure,” he began to snap out of it. “I didn’t want to pressure you.”
He shifted his direction away from the mantle, mirrored my position and smiled. Sometimes people think you have a plan when all you really have is a prayer.
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Ava? How you got here?” He waved his hands, “Here, as in today, Philadelphia, this room.”
And sometimes when the moment comes, the moment of action, the invitation, the way it feels when you wake up on a set or something, like this has been laid out before you
“Well, gee, how far back should I go?”
you leap.
“I’d love to hear the whole thing and we have so much time.”
He sat back on the couch and stretched his legs out. I stayed in my stance, murmuring little thank yous in my head. You leap and the net appears, or as I like to say, you can will anything into existence if you fixate on it daily and even in duress if all you pictured was one giant net, the tightrope will manifest first.

“Trap them in the room. The smaller the better. Repeat the story twice, slightly different to confuse them. lead them to believe you have some key. There are no windows. Begin to use an accent. Say it like this.

There is no Sarrrr- uh here. My name is Cot-treen Cos-rick.

If the candles blow out, laugh.”

“Ok, sooo start over, but from the beginning. Just exactly how it is.
“ I told you already exactly…”

“Yeah, you have, but you never, ever EVER tell it in linear order.”
“You always say lin..”
“I mean, you always fill in a detail way later, way after the accident, and then you start talking about what happened that day. It’s like a….what is it?” he turns to Marisol.

Marisol was fiddling with the papers on the love seat. Little green buds dotted her skirt. She raised her right hand and gestured to the air.
“Like, like choppy. Some kind of David Lynch daydream except as not as cool and nobody cares.” She licked the paper. “And you’ll never finish it.”
He waved his hand at her as if to say no way but he sipped his beer and didn’t continue the story. 

“Forget it, tell it later, let’s get drunk first.” Jack said walking over to get a beer from the fridge. 

David chimed back in, “You know I have that acid in my pocket too.”

Jack studied the fridge for a second before deciding which brand he wanted. They had brought so much beer for such a short weekend and small party. Hedonistic.
“I think we should wait,” he said. “Just a little bit longer.”

“What are you waiting for?” Marisol got up from the couch, forgetting her previous project. She wrapped her hands around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. 

“We’re waiting to cut the dose. I thought Marco was coming. Elise for sure.” 

“Just do it, dude let’s do it. It’s still early and it lasts for hours. It’s already 6:30.” David repeated, motioning to his phone.

“Yeah, but…”

“No one else is coming, right?”
He walked over to the both of them and held his phone up to Jack’s face to show him the weather forecast. FLASH FLOOD WARNING in black bold letters. “The storm is getting worse and it’s a long drive. No one’s coming all the way to the trail to split two hits of acid among like seven people.”
Jack opened the bottle with his keychain, nodding to himself. Marisol held his waist tight, sort of purring next to him. David turned to glance at Lilian but she was completely checked out.
“Are you even getting service here?”
Stunned, she lowered her hand and looked at him.

“I was just playing the card game.”
David nodded, masking his resentment. Not just at her aloofness but having ever left Milah to begin with and for having invited Lilian on this trip or for ever asking what she was doing on her phone. They held eye contact briefly before she went back to her phone.  Jack and Marisol were whispering when David turned his attention back to them. Fuck this.
“Ok, I’m cutting it. Half a dose each.”
He walked past the couple to grab scissors from the counter, still there from when he set them down earlier ready to cut it at three.
“Let’s do it now, otherwise, we will be up all night.”
He had three tabs total. He pulled two out now and cut them both in half, easy, precisely. Not even glancing back at his girlfriend, he remarked, “Lilian, you can sit this one out if you want.”
Lilian tucked a strand of wispy dirty blonde hair behind her hair and stared towards the kitchen but still very much entranced with the graphics from her phone. She blinked and everyone stared back at her. Jack already had his hand out and Marisol was walking back to the love seat to return to rolling the joint.
“Ummm,” she began, clutching the phone but also letting it fall towards her thigh so she wasn’t looking at it.
David and Jack were peeling back the paper and sticking out their tongues. Marisol was back to spreading the flowers over the paper. Lilian was marked by indecision as a rule.
“You don’t have to,” Jack smiled, warmth radiating.
David turned to face the other direction so she didn’t see his visible irritation.  She nodded. Marisol glanced at her and smiled.
“Do you smoke?”
“Sometimes,” she dropped the phone and started running her fingers through her hair with both hands. “Tonight probably.” She glanced at David. “Not the acid though.”
David turned completely around to face her, stuck his tongue out and dropped the paper beneath his tongue. Spiteful, he snapped his mouth shut like a reptile, a crocodile. To the room, it appeared they knew their problems but they didn’t. They both carried distractions like moats blocking passage or transcendence of any real conversation between them. It had been like this. It would probably remain like this. Jack had also stuck his piece under his tongue.
“Marisol?”
. Letting her fingers tickle his abdomen first, she leaned over to kiss him as David watched. Outside the first loud thunder cracked.
“It begins,” Marisol said cheerily and stuck her tab under her tongue.

David put the last half tab back on the foil on the island. Lilian and the gang were separated by it.  The three of them talked amongst themselves as she excused herself to walk to one of the bedrooms. Tiptoed, actually. She made herself useful somewhere else unpacking David’s stuff. An act of gratitude or fear, it was unclear but as she began pulling his sweatpants out of the black duffel bag, she was the one that heard the rap on the door. The back screen door. She was the one that paused holding the gray pants in air.  She was the one that laid them flat on the bed, contrite with her boredom, adjusting the creases on the queen-sized duvet cover. Make up for your flatness. She was the one who left the task, walked out the bedroom door and she was the one that saw a hooded woman through the window. She was the one that opened the door without making a sound to see her, drenched and shaking and she was the one that said, “Please come in” and watched the woman traipse mud across the welcome mat onto the hardwood floors.

“Please,” Lilian gestured to the bathroom near the backdoor, “let’s get you out of those clothes. I will bring you some.”

Lilian led her into the bathroom and closed the door behind her, grabbed a pair of sweatshirts, clean plain light blue underwear–granny panties, gray wool socks, and a hooded sweatshirt and lightly knocked back on the bathroom door without telling anyone a stranger had arrived to their house. She heard them in the kitchen, laughing, talking, not making out any words just jovial sounds. Her instinct was to help, nurture, ground on Earth. She was a Cancer. She was a mother. The woman stood on the bathroom rug dripping and Lilian saw the rug was ruined; the pale blue now caked in brown. The hardwood leading to the bathroom linoleum was dotted with muddy footprints. They could clean this place before leaving Sunday.

“You can catch pneumonia.”
The stranger took her hood off and stared at Lilian. Shivering, her eyes were wide, a little terror in her stare but glittering. The woman was pallid yet stunning. Even dripping wet, she was the mutt picked first, Lilian thought.
Setting the clothes on the top of the toilet seat, she stated, “Please take a bath or shower. Whatever you prefer.” Lilian opened a small closet next to the towel rack to pull out two big fluffy white towels. “For your hair too.” She set those on top of the toilet seat. “I’m gonna make a pot of lemon tea.”
The woman stayed silent. Is she in some kind of shock?
“I will come check on you if you want. Otherwise, we will be in the living room.”
The woman nodded. Lilian left the bathroom and David was coming towards her.
“What’s up?” he said, half smiling.
“I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some?”
“I have to piss,” he headed towards the door.
“No, go upstairs. There’s a woman in there.”

“What?”
“I let a woman inside from the rain. She was soaking wet and pale. She can catch pneumonia. She must have got caught hiking. She was wearing hiking boots and clothes.”

They heard the shower turn on. David looked at her with surprise.
“You let a strange woman in here without telling us?”
They could hear Marisol and Jack from the other room, still giggling, the tab of a beer opening.
“I am telling you now. She was going to catch pneumonia.”

“Lilian, we are in the middle of the woods,” his eyes moved over the hallway footprints, seeing, believing her.
She shrugged, “Yeah. We are.”
She moved past him without saying another word and he heard her say excuse me and he heard some dishes clanking and he heard the stove click, preparing to light the burner. He looked at the footprints. He listened to the shower run. He let his body undulate with warmth as the acid kicked in.
“You can’t be sure about anything, his friend has said to him the first time he took it. Only a half a tab then too. “When you take psychedelics just find a way to remind yourself  you’re on drugs. Don’t believe everything you hear or see.”
He could see the footprints. Lilian wasn’t lying. He could hear the shower running and feel his stomach churn a little; that first wave of nausea that hits when you ingest a foreign chemical. His guts rumbled. Too much beer. Fuck.
“Guys,” he yelled.
He heard more dishes clank and imagined Lilian, preparing the intruder a snack. Fucking dumb bitch. “There’s a stranger showering in our bathroom.”

“the woman who told the stories”

She heard screams as she passed Sunside Community Center. She knew it was some sort of retirement home and decided it was the least likely place for what she was looking for. Curious though, she paused to listen to the screams. She was trying not to walk on the sidewalk just in case so she was outside someone’s window, skulking around the back. There was a bunch of panic and yelling and she felt it.
“I do not envy those nurses.”
Decidedly, she kept walking. Her outfit was practical: big black parka, big black boots, black hat, black leggings, but her posture was suspect. She really didn’t want to attract any attention. Pursuant, she could walk for miles as long as she kept her mind occupied.
Alligator. Aardvark. Antelope. Anteater. Arachnid. Damn.
“Can I say Allosaurus?”
The snow hit her eyelids and stung.
Allosaurus. Albertosaurus. Ankylosaurus.
Thank god my mother bought me all those animal books.
No, mira, don’t think.
Ant. Alligator snapping turtle.
She watched her boots march through the snow pausing at the edge of the yard and the street.
Armadillo.
She began to traverse the neighborhood, leaving hers behind, meeting theirs and reciting.

“the woman who walked for miles”

“Are you time?”
There were screams coming from the hallway and she was pacing the dark room picking up objects and putting them down.
“Are you time?”
Florence had been gifted a pair of scissors earlier that day, actually. Well, she stole them from the craft box. A nice trinket for her room. Large too. There was a giant bruise forming on her shin where she had just run into her armchair on the way to get them.
‘Don’t eat your buttons, Florence,” Mya  had said to her earlier
“Where is my cuckold?”
“Girl, what?” she laughed, turning her back to check on Bob and Florence pocketed the scissors with the red handle.
A new shiny object to touch. She went back to touching the pearly white buttons of her sweater and lifting them to put them in their mouth.
“Oh my god, Flo, I have to watch you every second.”
Mya gently took her hands and guided them away from the buttons and her mouth and set them on her lap. She looked her in the eyes.
“Flo, this is not lunch time. It’s craft time.”
“Where is my husband?”
Mya stroked her cheek and walked over to Janette.
“Are you time?”
She picked up one of the pieces of green wire and tried to make it into a fork so she could finish lunch. She began to nibble her fingers. Try to eat your carrots, someone had said. Keep mistaking them for thumbtacks and you stick them in my arm. Keep mistaking them for buttons and you tuck them in your shirt. Are you time? She began to bite her nails and then saw a pea on her shirt. She picked it up and put it in her mouth.
“Florence!”

It was after dinner and dark, pitch black, unusual. There were moans and yelling and Florence was standing at her bureau stroking the scissors and a shell she had found. She couldn’t remember the day at the beach picking up the scissors but she did remember today at lunch picking up the shell. Try to form a sentence.Try to remember things for whole minutes at a time.I like broccoli. We had wine sometime near November, it was raining and chilly. I wore white with a pearl knit sweater, there were daisies on the table and I almost threw a fit. I saw my mother and try to remember the dance.
Florence began to sway, cupping the scissors and the shell. There was no light from the window and she couldn’t feel the bruise on her leg. Sometimes, she can stand alone for minutes at a time but most days she needs help getting back to her room, undressed, in bed. The scissors had been in her pocket and would have been discovered if Mya had time to change her but she was clean.
“Eat your crackers, Florence.’
She had no accidents in her diaper that day. Mya had helped her with her lunch. Try the zipper; it looks like an upside down fork so let’s eat our soup with it. Where is my knife?
“Here, here is the napkin.”
But what came next?
Try to remember how to pick  up the fork. Florence began pushing the scissors into the shell in an effort pick up the food and eat it. She did not hear the man enter the room or walk up behind her or even whisper,
“Flo, are you ok?”
Eat the napkin?
You wore a white dress that day.
When I was a kid the world was a rainbow and we chased the yellow storms for that sweet pinch of gold. I had goosebumps in September. I lost everything come November.
“Where is my husband?
White and pink trim.
“It’s me, Bob.”
Where is my spoon?
Try the light switch. You just had it here somewhere.
Where am I?
Bob touched her shoulder to get her attention and she remembered the way it felt on her wedding day. The world is a colorful frown. An upside down money dispenser. Luck of the something.
You were petrified and pretty and already broken by a midnight stallion                          so he
“Florence, the power is out.”
She held the red handle firmly and released the shell and steadied herself on instinct. Her movements now slow and forced and wobbly. But she was able to turn around. Where am I? Who AM I? The room was lit only by a battery powered ballerina in the corner so she could see the outline of his face and glasses and checkered collar but nothing from the chest down and she didn’t really notice Mya behind him. She neatly placed the blades to his throat and pushed as hard as she could until he gurgled and grabbed at her arm which was strong from supporting herself on wobbly knees. She was able to push it in further. She was able to stand. No accidents today.
I wore white that day.
I ate cake that day.
I have bean soup somewhere.
I want cake.
This is a button to put in my shirt.
She pressed harder and then grabbed his top bottom. As he fell backwards,  Mya screamed, alarming Florence. Shaken for only a moment, yet mostly unperturbed, she pulled the button off of his shirt and let him fall.
“Something tastes like lilac bleach.”
Get that out of your mouth!
There was a spoon.
I wore white.
I wear white.
It is permanently night.
Mya was screaming and another attending came and she heard gurgling. Steadying herself with her right hand again, she licked the button first and then placed it in her mouth, on her dry tongue and tried to swallow it feeling it lodge itself in her throat. You cried and you cried and you swore
Where am I?
Is it night?
I did listen.
I am listening.
I am listening.
I didn’t do anything: it was a riding lesson.
I am listening.
I was a faithful virgin until you.
The rain is whispering and broncos are chasing you
to canopies of sense and wonder and you wonder.
“Flo, are you listening? I brought you some cake. Vanilla.”
Suddenly two arms were around her and pushing on her stomach until she coughed something out.
And you promised him it was nothing.
Nincompoop.
“I’m a ninny,” she said being lowered to the chair
Here him whinny.
Here me whine.
I said something.
I’m a ninny.
I said no.
He said, “bend over, Flo, you will learn to like it.
She turned to both of them, their mouths agape, Bob sprawled on the floor.
“There is my cuckold,” she pointed.
She was sitting in the armchair now listening to Mya cry.
“Are you time?”
The nursing home was filled with cries.

“the black out” or “the woman who was raped by the men”

i don’t know what is better: to write or to have written but I do know that the devolvement I suffered from my creative process is all i was seeking. to be finished, incomplete, that is a promise.  anything else is good luck.

“And if you love, if you really love,
our guns will wilt.”

We sat back in our respective seats; me, more comfortable and relieved, him, seemingly waiting for something. I twisted the straw in my pocket and tried to think of innocuous conversation starters but felt the silence wash over us. I wondered what he was thinking. He watched the fire.
“This is the perfect time for brandy,” he said.
“May I take my shoes off?”
“Of course!”
He turned back to me and I didn’t want him watching me. I didn’t want to take them off but they were heavy, wet. His eyes first fell to my fingernails: stubs, dirty probably, as they reached towards my laces. I am used to throwing my shoes off without untying them: hitting the back of the ankle with my other pleather toe. But when being watched I am more careful, performing the action rather than living it. I untied my left shoe slowly and he watched me. There was no sound outside so between us just a fire crackling and the faint sound of my hand lifting the heel of my boot off of my foot and the light tumble to the floor. He turned his head back to the fire. I began to untie the other shoe in stark silence. An uncertainty lay between us.
“Do you have any brandy?” I asked.
“I wish,” he didn’t look at me. ‘You drink?’
A little clunk to the floor to break the tension.
“I wish,” I raised my arms above my head and stretched my feet out, moving my toes up and down. “Moments like this I wouldn’t mind. I prefer whiskey though.”
“Oh yeah?” his eyes turning to befall my pointed toes.
“Yeah. Or wine.”
He turned his body to face me. He was attractive. Kind of like a cabin man: boring khaki colored uniform, sad eyes, full thick beard and full head of hair. Handsome without peacocking,  no issues attracting women but an arrant bore and slightly off-putting with his distance. Something about him stirred trepidation in me. His house had no pictures or relics of memory, at least that I could see. Maybe he hid everything. This isn’t the time of Dionysus or chalices but to be careful and severe. And warm. I was a stranger. But he was a stranger too. I wiggled my outstretched fingers and set my feet back on the floor.
“You ever been married?”
“No.”
Try not to be so short.
I coughed, “I’ve been close. Once or twice. Nothing too serious.’
“You said you just moved here?”
“Yep.”
“From where?”
“Colorado.”
“Colorado?” He straightened himself and leaned forward. “Why would you leave such a beautiful place like that?”
“Stupidity.”
I threw my arms up. My ankles were crossed, legs outstretched, feet yearning for the fire. I placed my hands back on the top of my thighs and sat leaning forward too so we were facing each other, fire in the background. I was on the edge of my seat as was he. What else?
“When did you move here?”
“About two months ago.”
“Where do you live now?”
“ A few blocks, on the edge of Society Hill.’
I waved my hand towards the window.
“Queen Village?”
I shrugged, “To be honest, I am still learning the lay of the land.”
“What’s your address?”
Uh-uh. Timidly, I shook my head biting my bottom lip.
“Of course. You don’t know me.”
“It’s not…’
He interjected, “No, you should be careful. I can reassure you I won’t hurt you but my reassurance is lip service.”
He turned back to the fire. I looked at the floor. Ask about the painting. But I don’t care.
“Did you paint that?”
“What? That?” He pointed to the painting. “No, I bought that at an auction.”
Don’t ask him how much.
“It was 7500.”
I bit my tongue.
“Sorry, that’s tacky.”
“Oh, no, I mean, it’s large. Oil?”
We both stared at it.
“Yes.’
I have to stay the night here.
“It’s beautiful.”
I have to keep talking.
“Thanks.”
The fire crackled and I was already hungry again.“My name is Ava,” I reiterate. “Ava Allinger.”
“Tom. Tom Pearson. Sorry, I never said my name.”
“It’s ok. I never told you my last name. It’s nice to meet you, Tom.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ava Allinger.”
I wish I had some wine or a joint or a friend here. I reach my hand in my pocket to touch the straw as we sit in silence, running over our stories in our head and our names. Not our names, but the other’s name. Deftly, I sit but in my mind I maunder.

His living room was modest save the fireplace. Small, in fact. More like a den and given the situation, the room was darker than it normally would be but it also felt dark. Really, a square the size of a one bedroom, and unwelcoming. Like a cave. Besides the crackle of the fireplace, nothing lived. There were, again, no pictures. There was no furniture except an end table between the two seats: an armchair and a couch. He gestured to the armchair.
“Please, get comfortable.”
I looked behind me before sitting. A habit with cats but also a feeling of mist everywhere. The whole room felt like it needed to be dusted: stale and languid and noxious in some minor way. His wife may have picked out the burgundy throw pillows to match the drapes but the focal point was his: one large painting of a rowboat docked on a lake, trees in the distance. This was his motif. This was the home of mundane lonely man with no taste or value. The couches were tan, fabric, two pillows. The armchair matched with a similar color throw blanket hanging over the back. The walls were light green, sort of an easter green, or tan, I couldn’t see exactly. She did this. That painting is his though. He probably bought it. She took everything else and he hid all the pictures.
“Nice to be by a fire, huh?”
I nodded. My hands were on my knees and I was on the edge of the armchair. He was on the seat of the couch nearest the fire. There were two windows on either side of the painting, both curtained, that dark blood red and closed. No light peeking in. This room was too dark. I suddenly became nervous and almost stood up.
He was watching me.
I nodded again. A nervous habit. Keep nodding.
“Where is your bathroom?” I stood up.
“I’ll show you,” he also stood up.
My boots were heavy, wet and I tried to pick my feet up when I walked. I didn’t want him asking me to take them off. Draw no attention. I was probably tracking mud throughout his house. He had said nothing about me wearing all my clothes. It’s freezing.  He took me back through the dining room and around the kitchen, on the other side of the wall. To see the layout. There was a couch and a hassock and some blue thing, like an old toy, almost looked like a dog toy, on the floor. I couldn’t make things out. He hadn’t lit any candles or used a flashlight, opting instead to lead me with his assurance. I swooped down to grab the straw as we passed the front without him noticing. Maybe he never noticed it dropping, laying. Elation, pure elation, just from touching it.  I even felt the tingle rise in my chest as soon as my knees cracked on the way back up. Quickly, I placed it in my coat pocket, the coat I had yet to take off. Fingering it, a smile spread across my face when he turned to show me the entrance. I was beaming and he was smiling and there was an exchange. I missed you. Feeling it in my pocket as I walked the step up.
“Watch your step,” I said.
Clenching it. Clenching jaw. Clenching the plastic. I stood at the mirror, flame dancing below it, my face a haze of sneer.
“Do anything you want tonight.”
I took my hands out to unbutton my pants and pull them down and then stuck them immediately back in my pocket as I sat on the toilet. My joints had a rhythm to them. The shut of my teeth started, then the twisting in my finger tips, then I began to hum. Reunited with an earlier thought, sorrow fell away. They say excretion is one of the first joys we learn as a kid so is clutching, touching, grabbing. If you asked me right then what I felt, I’d say incanting.
I’d say enraptured.
Took my hands out to wipe to flush.
I’d say joyous.
Wash my hands.
“How would you describe me in three words?” I asked him once.
Dry with light green towel sitting on hamper. It was moist.
“Umm, from what I know….steadfast.” 
“Ok.”
“Enchanting.”
“Yep.’
“Astute.”
I threw the door open and placed my right hand back in pocket.
“Good?’ he asked.
“Very.’
He led me back to the living room past the larger couch and space but no fireplace and I noted. He said nothing as we passed the front door.
“How would you describe yourself?”
He gestured again to the armchair.
“May I take my shoes off?”
“Pernicious.”
He looked up at me from the bed. I kind of towered.
“Paranoid.”
I went to grab the candle off the candlestick.
“I am not sure if I want to say experimental or the other word I am thinking of.”
I walked back towards him with the candle stick.
“These,” I looked down at him, “are not safe for wax play.’
I began to drip the word vengeful on his unshaved chest.