The guy tells her that he is
sad she hadn’t lost her virginity in her good days. That high school love is
the rosiest and the world of bitchy reality is upon her and she is dying. Soon,
you’ll give birth to a zombie, he says. You’ll wade through the planet and see
or feel nothing but an overbearing presence of your own past and the desperation
to make amends, to take yourself forward and make yourself important in front
of your own eyes. No matter what you do, you’ll still keep trying to better
yourself. People will tell you you have. And you will nod. You won’t be ready
to get off the tiger you are riding because you know it will devour you the
moment you do.
Or you might. And turn to some
other form of being; mutilating yourself, yet trying to make yourself
presentable in front of an audience, conjuring stories weaved out of
imagination, distorting facts to suit you, a magician who chooses to live in her
own magic world.
She stands on her toes and puts her lips to his ears. Her hand
slithers down and gives them balls a gentle squeeze. Chicken Fry, she tells him.
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