Issue 12: Spring 2018

Page 26

Craving A. J. Romriell A white, steaming brick falls into the water, the metal instantly rumbling against the dry ice. Air pushes beneath the liquid, bubbles bursting into silvery mist when they penetrate the surface. Carl and I are alone by the three-compartment sink in the back room of Coldstone Creamery. The store uses dry ice to cater wedding ice cream, and we have fun with the leftovers. I can hear rattling within the sides from the dry ice quivering at the bottom of the water as the CO² smoke casts like waterfalls from the side sinks into the empty middle, filling it to the brim with pale smoke. It is dreamlike, and I fall into a trance watching it dance in the air. It’s slow and careless in the way it moves: sinking, rising, sweeping softly like airborne dust. Within minutes, the basin looks like nothing more than a pure blanket. Without warning, Carl slips his head into the middle sink, his spiked, bleached hair disappearing into the depths of oxygenless air. Startled, I witness his body convulse before he pulls out, his face a sick reddening purple. He coughs with a weak smile. “Try it,” he says, almost laughing. “Dunk your head in and try to breathe.” Trading places, I stare down to the quivering blanket of white below. It presses against the silver of its compartment, little bursts blowing from the sides where bubbles still pulse to the surface. They create swishes of


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