All these people drinking lover’s spit sings from the small alarm clock radio, baby speakers in lo fidelity on a low volume, on the munchkin dresser drawer between the two beds, like it’s the last song of the evening’s broadcast or like it’s the last song ever going to be played again, on any radio anywhere, and she doesn’t say much. She doesn’t really move much either. She imagines quietly in her mind sitting on the floor, the darkest space in the room, a single piece of intimate string made of very fine and very, very thin flesh like floss, and a man at the end of her toes, maybe a man she loves, she doesn’t know. But she imagines a man and he treats her carefully. A handsome, naked, charming man, kissing her toes as if they were tender kiwis softer than hair and sucking her piglets like he’s breathing in that piece of intimate string she was imagining before. Through her toes, he is passionate. How would he be able to read her thoughts like that? How would he know exactly what to do? What makes her happy.
The string passes through her body. The way music would, harmlessly and suggestively and soothing, like a deep red bell singing and she feels well put together. The carpet is green with red and ugly diamond patterns like sad art and bad carpentry, withstanding stiff as a board but she doesn’t care. She likes the floor. The wall meeting the floor and her back and the tall yellow, metal lamp.
Okay, she says. One, two, three, four.