I need more cream, she says. I need more cream here. Put it here. I put
it where she tells me. I need it, like, inside the thing, with your
finger. I think it's good enough, I say, let's go. She takes a picture
of the thing, then we leave.
The night is how the night normally is, moon hung, machine-gunned
stars. What does the night mean? I wonder, as if it were art. Electric
lights built by humans shine because of the no sunshine. We take a walk
and wonder under it all. Where are we headed? I ask. I'm hungry, she
Bumblebees block the happy door so we try the sad.
Inside, jars of black cream on shelves adorn the walls. The ceiling is
green. It is something I notice. The ceiling is someone's front lawn.
Seven sad, she says. The man takes seven jars from the shelf behind
him, bags them. Seven sad is seven even, he says, a dollar a jar.
I'm hungry, she says. We're back outside under the midnight. I've got a
Twix, I say, remembering. She eats it on the way back.
We're back, I say declaratively as I step through the doorway, as if
other people or maybe a dog lived there. The creamed thing is in the
corner. She goes to it, takes out a jar of sad and pours it in. Here,
she says. I take the camera from her. I take a picture of the thing. A
It's good, yeah? she says. I say, yeah.
Darby Larson edits the new online journal, Abjective. He's got
stories in or forthcoming from New York Tyrant, Eyeshot, No Colony, Pequin, SmokeLong and others.
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/200901art.htm
Detail of photo on main page courtesy
of Jef Harris.
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