Never & Wonder

Collision

our lives suspended

like birds caught in barbed wire

shattered on impact.

(red light.)

the wood under her bamboo fingers is scarred, like the thighs barely covered by her dress. she traces the lines like a lover's skin, knowing without ever seeing. her eyes are on the (rearview) mirror behind the bar.

she knows he's watching. (shift out of neutral.)

she shifts in her seat, sliding a silky leg into sight. it's white, like the tights she used to wear. patent leather shoes are replaced by stilettos. blue creased cotton by a little black dress. blonde hair from a bottle now, not from the mother she never knew. you could only know her by her eyes. oh, baby blue.

she's immune to the jarring effect of eye contact in mirrors, having fallen through one once upon a time. look. pause. (cheshire) smile.

(green light.)

she sips the drink he buys for her. it's one more that her prescription bottle says she shouldn't have. (but it says drink me, and she's fallen for that before.)

she leaves lipstick on the glass and wipes it away with a thumb. it stains her, and for some reason, the way it fills the lines of her fingerprint makes her think of blood spreading in the cracks of a broken windshield.

(they never even felt the crash.)