I had cut the
deck to the Ace of Tentacles. Don’t look
back they say but we always do. The road
to Playa de las Palmas was arduous. I
was riding the clutch & she was commenting on the tuck-and-roll upholstery.
There are things that are meant to be whispered like seafoam across the sand
& I told her so. We had been running on fumes ever since we crossed the
border, & we’d gone too far to turn back now. It’s late at night & it starts to
rain. Windshield wipers slapping like a
metronome keeping time. It’s difficult
to see in the blinding glare of oncoming headlights, but is that Janet Leigh
hurtling through space towards the Bates Motel?
was there when I got back & it was easy to see why she stood sideways with
her sisters in every snapshot pasted into her family’s photo album. The engines in her eyes were designed for
another purpose, one that had yet to be exploited. Her neon lip gloss gave every word she said a
luminous presence that made me think of lights along the pier on a foggy
night. She claimed her mirror engaged
her. It was the kind of dance St. Vitus
could appreciate. I responded with a pipeline
tango to music performed by a surf punk band called Horse Latitudes. My shirt got torn in the exchange of
pleasantries. Love is not a dream
returning, she said. A puff of smoke
dissolving, leaving a feather-shaped print on the wall, like the shadow of a
wing in flight.