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Talking to Steve
I am intensely interested in this conversation.
Because as Steve's mouth flaps billow open, and the tide
of foamy saliva swishes
back and forth across his tongue like in one of those disaster movies
where the room starts filling with water, or the boat starts sinking;
I can see the female lead, somehow, amidst the chaos, looking fantastic:
her soaked hairdo only occasionally falling into her eyes for dramatic purposes,
as she clings to an incisor, and stretches her thin fingertips towards the hot single guy who draws her naked.
Meanwhile the drummer from the all Asian Devo cover-band is screaming her lungs out,
even though the rest of the survivors except for the bassist are all safe
on the molars with most of their luggage.
He reaches out to her, clinging direly to Steve's right tonsil.
Their eyes meet, maybe for the last time
the words float between them unspoken but understood.
He touches her white fingers.
I nod eagerly, feigning interest in whateverthefuck Steve is jawing about
Small lives depend on me.
As their hands are locking, and the spittle is cascading over Steve's lower-lip
a tiny bubble appears between the gap in his front teeth.
Don't pop
Don't pop
Don't -fucking- pop she's almost got him, they're so in love
they could have pictures taken together,
they could have arguments and apologize right away to each other, they could wear pajamas
and have supermodel babies together.
Steve stops and swallows,
the muscles of his throat close behind another happy ending.
Briefly, she and I consider flinging ourselves in after him.
__________________
"I think, therefore I am confused"
-Robert Anton Wilson
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