A couple down the bar has been staring at you, for a while now.
You check in the mirror and without saying anything you give me a screaming, pure-joy, razor-wide smile and a heat starts to work its way out of your skin. and as it slinks up from around your collar and spools off your shirt like a bead of smoke, they disappear entirely I ask you how it happens and you tell me when it starts its like the breath before a hum and as you turn and you say it, in a whisper or a hum, I feel the slow creep of untraceable warmth we sit in it— a fog, that heat I tap you with a hand and point. On a shelf above the bar there is a wooden toy—a mouse. Painted wooden teeth, biting into a morsel of cheese. You don’t understand. How do I reach you? says the mouse. Here we start laughing big, hot, until everyone in here cannot possibly look away. And when it finally happened, the floor came up to meet us. Or a fire. Or we flung ourselves down to it.
Steps Magazine's second Fall semester issue.