Allergy

You looked suspiciously down at the teal can in your hand, reading past the ‘cocktail inspired’ tagline that convinced you it was safe to pick up and sip. You sat above a small circle of us in lawn chairs, resting on the throne of your mobility scooter. You had arrived to this flat, brown riverside park with a bouquet for the birthday girl bouncing along in the scooter’s front basket. Your scooter has small thick wheels, a handlebar steering system, and a spectrum of speeds: turtle to hare. “Symbols are powerful,” I said when we wondered about the longevity of this animal code. I walked behind you as you maneuvered down your block, crossed the street and continued past the falafel truck and the motorcycle garage. It was cold yesterday, and no one could quite access the loose limbs of Spring, but the new bright green was all around us shouting life! Life! Life! I made you a kimchi dog and got sidetracked like seven times at the grill, trying to be convivial in all my words with people. When I came back to your scooter, you were already flushing, but still had half a can. Post-dog and the rash had taken the territory from brow to chin, your nose the headquarters, red wings moving laterally across cheeks. The can revealed itself as spiked kombucha, and I resented the name ‘flying embers.’ You were upset the can had fooled you and decided to go home to take a Benadryl. We were sad to see you scooter off – was it our fault to not have organized the drinks?

Performance Art

You are a little sheepish about how much easier it is to write to people who enrage you. What about people who rip you into love? What about people for whom you only have a wobbly voice and accommodating eyes? You wear a black tank, black jeans, black boots, black flimsy tote with your recent performance publications there inside a ziploc. Your booklet is square, yellow, bilingual, with amazing color photos of you draped over military rocks and I can feel my cells raise their blind heads towards it. You put a clear and shiny salve on your lips as we’re talking and go: I’m sorry, I’m so dry, gesturing with your bare shoulder at the fireplace behind you and the shitty wet April day behind that. Your skin is smooth and plump and awake-looking and your hair is still wet from the quick shower you took just before texting that you were bajando to the lobby. You have a two-year-old at home in P.R., and you performed in a loading elevator flanked by mops wearing a thong bodysuit the day before this meeting. You make a joke to me about the old couple who were in the front row and how the man wouldn’t look at you for most of the show and how odd that was. The elderly wife was super into you, and you were thinking, why did you come if you’re too modest to see some tits and ass? I begin to think that the wife was so happy-looking because she delights in making her ancient blue-eyed husband feel uncomfortable. You say the thing about bringing on spring and sacrificing a human virgin (that bitch has to die) and I feel instantly embraced and begin to speak with my hands more. I am often going through my day desperate for Spring and thinking that bitch has to die.