She retreated an inch within and the piss porcelain and wet paper towels and the shit littered tiles and her size seven boot, printing damp jam to the door of the lavatory where she found herself, all seemed suddenly quite salubrious. But she wouldn’t take a piss in there.
Breathed out, rubbed her arms, rubbed her palms with her tits beneath sodden cotton. Breathed in bathroom perfume and thought of Luella. She giggled loud, remembered her saying, queen for a day and cunt for a month.
Luella at The Eight Kings, out on Penn Beacon, back in the dark ages. They said goodbye to the sky one morning and that was that. Hello underwater world. Dead bugs and shells became shiny things and pearls.
Luella on a mattress in an orange room. Dog ends and black plastic skulls. Asian scarves. Paisley lamp drape. Sometimes electric or heat in the hearth. Mostly just knuckled candle nub. Ashtray stubs, brim of grey bullets. TV static, curtain curtailing sunlight. Dirty dishes, brown spoon, tea stained teacup. Crumpled tumbleweed, burns in the carpet, burns on the rug. Stopped clock. Time, huh! Lightness of touch. Nod. Ache. Nod. Ache. Phone calls and phone bill and
and when i sleep, luella [v/xii] ©2019