by R.S. Bohn
A black tape. Sticky sentences, these words, these days. I listen again. Tell me what you’re doing in that tiny room. On that tiny ship. In that great big ocean, where I am not and you are alone in a room with a tape recorder and an extra sock.
Since you’ve been gone, I drink kahlua and vodka, no milk. I pace in circles, because I hate sitting on that couch. The backs of my thighs are rash-red and sweaty. I found the money in the envelope under the sink. The flowers showed up two days ago. It’s so hot, and I paid way too much for this vcr, and I hate trying to lie on that couch while watching Highlander again. One channel: Arsenio on at eleven. Even then, it’s too hot.
I’m going to wear out this tape, I can already tell. I put my pinky finger in and wind it tight – not too tight – and listen again. And have another drink. And pace in circles with a hand between my legs. Until three a.m. This isn’t love, but it sure helps the summer go by faster.
When are you coming home?
R.S. Bohn writes love letters with a hand between her legs. This week, she's most proud of planning the death of her parasitic twin, who writes love letters to fictional characters. All good things come to those who masturbate.