She is a cartoon. Or, she is a polaroid, fully developed moments after
the click. Together, they are hot slick surface. She feels like a shiny
black gun on a white sand beach.
He asks, "Do you think you're deep and meaningful?" She doesn't answer.
She says, "I think I'm easy." They go to bed, again and again and
She is a cartoon. They are a firework. He tells her she smells of
rotting oranges. He says, "You are a rank jungle flower that attracts
The floor is littered with silk and clothes pegs. She answers, "I'm
deep, but there are no layers. I go straight down." "You are a well,"
They throw gold coins down into her and make wishes. They forget to
eat. She measures her hand span on his ribcage: it fits. All of the
wishes come true.
He smells like poppers and spray paint and krazy glue. At least, his
heart does. His skin smells like her. It is covered in black ink and
In his arms, she feels like animal fur and voodoo. "That doesn't
count," says the real world. They aren't listening. "Take my
photograph," he says.
They take a hundred photographs of each other. A thousand. They look
more beautiful than anything they have ever seen.
"I'm so glad you are my friend," he says. Together, they are fools
beyond the scope of language. "It isn't real," says the real world.
When they wake up, the first thing he tells her is that he missed her
in the night. The second thing is his dreams. The third thing is not
made of words.
She is a cartoon. They are a firework. If it were real, they wouldn't
be laughing. Love is a serious business. This is just an explosion and
the crook of an arm.
Jane Flett writes stories about the kind of girls who skin their knees
and get in trouble. She lives in Berlin.
Detail of drawing on main page courtesy
of Philip Bond.
Read more of her work in the archive.
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