Liam: the lost son, a slow blinking robin, a clear sphere to be put on a necklace.
Slow-moving, we hit a few bumps. The bug on the upper part of my large emergency escape window is unfamiliar. For a brief second, I consider squashing him with a page of the latest Marie Claire, but I spare him. Please dont venture down into the depths of my low-cut top, I think to myself. I could have said it out loud. No one listens to one another on this moving unit.
I start to compare old coal and steel town structures to fancier things. Some radio towers remind me of small Eiffel Towers. Stacks release steam and smoke as a sea creature would release ink. But is that fancy? I think to myself. I could have asked out loud, but no one answers one another on this train.
I cant believe how beat up these houses all look. I carefully select the ones I would live in. The roughed-up boards that form the porch strangely provide character. The missing stoops and stairs give birth to doors which cannot be entered through. I select those first. Moments ago I made a hypothetical list of the top three guys I would like to have sex with. Someone who will take more control, someone whose hair is out of control. I imagine my boyfriend’s list—the top three girls he would like to fuck. In my head I see smaller breasts, less cellulite, less body hair. One girl is less of a bitch than myself and the other one is way more innocent. I feel guilty and shift back over to the subject of bruised and battered houses, right as this train shifts to the “B rails,” according to a fast walker’s walkie-talkie.
I’m reminded of my days of ballet dancing for a brief moment as I notice the sun hitting hard against the unmoving ground. I am up on pointe, now I go down into a grande plie.
Chugging along slowly. One more great bump. There is another train coming fast from the other direction. It feels like a magnet. Are we tilting towards it? I place my nose down on my recently-purchased piece of amber. Sterling silver. Ruby red drips out. A nosebleed on the tracks. Someone report this to the fast walker. A dilapidated house stares down at me as I clean up.
It’s been about a year since we planted him in the ground. Nothing has bloomed there yet. No shades of amber or ruby, nothing in between. Nothing has come of it.