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- Oct 1, 2005
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Smoother Than Breast Milk
AboutYou were there when it happened. I know you were. It was sunny and warm out in the city garden, beautiful and clear. I could take a breath and the landscape would fill my lungs, sweet with grass and flowers and the gentle sweat of human company. As I strolled along the bricks of the yard, baked red in the sun, I watched people. I heard their laughter and conversation as they glowed under the sun.
I was watching a boy kick a soccer ball toward his friend when it happened. I followed its arc as it left his tattered shoes and flew into the air; watched the boy's friend run backwards, treading the grass as he anticipated its landing. And right before the ball was about to land, I saw it shudder and stop.
I froze, and fuck, I was a slit on a stroboscope. Hoping, praying that if I stalled my blink, it would bring erasure when I next opened my eyes. You snagged at my peripheral vision, and when I turned you were staring straight at me, your irises yawned in fear. I heard myself scream.
Something stuttered. Was it me? Did I fucking stutter?
It's a strange thing when you cease to exist for a moment. When your being flickers. When the day is superimposed on you with the breadth of the universe and the depth of what it is not. At night, I would dream of looking in the mirror and seeing my own elongated face, grinning back in the dimness with my mouth full of teeth; my eyes full of teeth, teeth teeth teeth, and when I raised my trembling hands to touch my features I felt nothing but the smoothness of glass.
I heard reality unzip behind me.