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CARBON COPY by Shannon Lewis Images by Mark Jabaut
You find her pink hair in the crowd. The wave of people emerging from the train floods the platform and you lose her again. You swivel around, trying to find her but she finds you. She wraps her arms around your ribs. You breathe her in. Artificial apples and something else, something salty that you’ve never smelled anywhere else. Your memory stirs with images of bedsheets and sunlight filtered through a curtain. You kiss her. She slips her hand, hot and slightly sweaty, into yours as you descend into the Underground. You ask if she had a good journey. Her lip trembles. She squeezes your hand tighter and says it was fine, but she’s just glad to be here. The train screeches. You shake your head, trying to rattle away the headache building at the base of your skull, and find a couple of seats. She leans her head against your shoulder and thanks you for letting her visit last minute. You kiss the top of her head, drawing her nearer. Her dark roots are starting to show. She never needs an excuse to visit, you say, you’re always happy to see her. Does she want to talk about it? She shrugs, fiddling with the lighter in her pocket. Chemistry coursework isn’t going well, and she had another fight with the fork-hoarding housemate, and her parents keep asking if she wants to invite Aunt Elise to graduation, and Aunt Elise keeps asking if she has a job yet even though it’s only February. The lighter wheel spins with small quick clicks. And she’s had it up to here with the cold. You laugh, taking both her hands, and promise you’ll take her somewhere warm soon. Meantime, you say, reaching into your backpack, I brought you a present. She smiles, flashing her pink gums. You hand her watermelon-redcurrant gummies, the kind that can only be found at the off-license at the end of your street. She gives you a sideways hug. Leaning your head against the top of hers, you can feel the vibration of her chewing. It is steady, constant. Your eyes close. You see strange visions, test tubes full of gloopy red liquid and emaciated bodies wheeled into a furnace. There’s an acrid smell, like burning rubber, and the sound of machines. You look down at your body and find it has no skin. You can see your organs, cotton-candy pink, shining up at you. Your heart beats. She nudges you awake and you jolt up. It’s your stop. Winter air stings your face as you exit the station. You stifle a yawn. The cold, which you expected to shock you into wakefulness, only increases your longing for a bed. She asks if you like your new job, and you say it’s fine but phlebotomy isn’t exactly your life’s passion. As you unlock your front door, her finger slips into your belt loop. She kisses you and your body responds. She says she loves you, running her fingers through your hair. Light bounces off her lashes. Like clockwork, you say it back. She pauses, feels at the back of your head a moment as if tentatively brushing a bruise. You think