I could let the hours glide, seconds tick along to the radiator, watching Anya sit on the window sill. Cigarette between her fingers. Elbow resting on her knee, drawn up. Secondary leg stretched along the outcrop. Brown eyes between wide lids, watching the tower of neighboring apartments. Half-two in the morning, and most all those rooms have their midnight oil burning bright. Stained glow, mingled with lamppost illumination, it brings out a deeper hue from her pallid skin. Smoke trickles from feline lips. Sketch artist circles, up through the open window. Swirls headed for a waning moon, and this darkroom does wonders for those blonde curls falling past bare shoulders. Vaccination scar. Back arching against the breeze. Giving in to the cold, curvature leading down to a penny, stuck to her hip for how long now?

Turns with a tilt of her head, just for the sake of a question: “What?”

My lips work against the cotton filter, cherry highlight twitching. “So close to perfect.”

“What would be perfect?”

“If it was raining right now.”


Propped up in bed, thinking just maybe… “Yeah.”

Anya tosses her hair back and gave the sky a smile.

Lightning strikes somewhere in the city.

All we see is the light, waiting for thunder to shake the walls.

And when it does, it comes with rain.

From where, I don’t know. Not a cloud in the sky, but I think Anya doesn’t bother with details, and it takes less than seconds. Four or five drops against the glass before thousands make their way in through the open window. Their friends and family beating against the building. Begging to be let inside.

Anya laughs. Her body turns wet, water running down her face, landscaping, rivers taking detours past chest, breasts, belly, from the top of her knee, flowing to join the rest down past her thighs, and the moon is still out, her entire body shining.

Turns to face me. Hair soaking, engrained against her face, mouth open.

Water bursting from her lips as she asks, “How about that, Lucky?”

And her cigarette miraculously continues to burn bright in the window, allowing for all outsiders to stare in wonder at this warning, while miles away, the oceans crash against the shallows.


in print:

or for fucking free in digital

so long and thanks for all the pish.



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