August 2, 2018 by RJ
There were stenciled migraines all over her apartment walls, her very own paintings. It was a small apartment in a strange, deteriorated neighborhood, with half the houses on the street boarded up. I watched her drink her drink from across the room. She had leviathan hair and dimples in her cheeks and she said, “You’re wasting your time with all that. I never think about death. We all die anyway, so what’s the fucking point.” She told me her name was Frances. I never saw her again. I fell in love though, and had a little weed left, so we stretched across her floor, smoking and listening to music, to some of her favorite songs. “I’m trying to be more honest lately,” she said. “More upfront.” We eventually went to the bedroom and went sideways and I wrapped my hand around her calf and lifted her leg a little and she grabbed the back of my thigh. I asked her if it felt good, and she said it felt pretty good. The back of her neck smelled like espresso and I slept with my hand on her rib cage, running my fingers up and down each rib. In the morning we went to the grocery store and stood in line and she picked up a magazine and flipped through the pages. I wanted to tell her I loved her. I couldn’t. I didn’t though. But now that’s my only god: that love.
Jesse Eagle is the editor of the online journal DOGZPLOT.