It’s the motion, the roundness, a clanging of metal on
metal, flopping metal, banging metal, wind-whipped and over-bent metal,
sometimes held by stick, sometimes held by rock, but always pushing up against
the elements pushed by elements, flame cooked by elements and wranging on the
door.
His head felt like that door, flapping and rocking and rent
upon a metal frame. But just moveably so. Mentionably so. Recognizably so. The
way you turn your head a bit to look at something with a new angle of eye, a
refocused effort towards recognition, outing the hidden difference on the
familiar image framed in front. It was just slightly so that she couldn’t put a
finger on it at first, but later, after a kiss and a brushing of eyelashes,
scootching back across rumpled couch, she made the tilt and could see it.
There. In the angle of his neck. What was it? A word spoken by a sinewy line.
“How could we…?”
“I don’t know.”
Sigh.
Pursed upper lip.
“Alright I just—”
Shakes head. Line bends, warping.
Air escapes lungs.
Rolling off and climbing, climbing to a fridge, pulling the
handle for the twenty-second time that day, eleven, eleven pm, hit the average,
but there was only two.
The coolness from the frigid air didn’t reach his body from
arms length. A look into the clinically white and washed inside of a white and
washed door, metal door, though unbent.
