Our friend, Dan, drove me to town for the meeting that night. We stopped to see you before it started. Your sister was there, and a friend of yours who was back home for a visit. He was clearly up to no good. He had his eyes on you.
The ceilings were high. Everything was pristine, silver, black and white. We all stood. No one was seated. Your husband wasn’t home.
You and I went to the southeast corner of the kitchen to talk. We embrace. I place my hands on the sides of your head and draw you to me like a cup. Your eyes are soft and dark and intent. Fire.
We kiss, and your pucker pulls my teeth to yours. You lock me there, teeth to teeth, vacuum and pressure. Stillness. Brainwaves drop into theta. I am falling. I am in samadhi.
Your eyes. Your eyes. Your eyes. Wherever I go in the room I glance and your eyes.
I become aware of the other people in the room. Dan has left, and I realize I have no ride home. I look for a cigarette. I find a tin box with little leftover pieces of cigarettes and they look like the Luckies that my dad smoked. I light one, and take a draw. It tastes of harsh menthol, like a Kool. Nasty. Sick. Regret.
We are in the hallways at a conference. It is morning. I avoid small talk with the others. I find a buffet station. Tiny metal strips with little circles in them – like flattened kazoos – seem like vessels for heating water for coffee.
Wait. That can’t be right.
