Blood Letting
Over her chest she wears a blue triangle with black slashes. Barefoot, she is 17 summers old with a round face and lovely butt. His eyes burn, but it's the hair the hair, its length and then the blackness she likes. He's from the South. "Don't ya think death is more interesting than life?" he sneers, but glad to take her hand. They stroll down Saint Catherine's Street toward the Saint Lawrence Seaway where bridge towers hold roads up. She doesn't care where, she just wants to go. Everywhere. Visit those provinces of dense religion, take in pine tree and rosary, chore and crucifix. They walk and the sun seems to smile in the cafe windows where swollen tomatoes and red peppers float in vinegar jars. She's never seen anything like it. Bloodied hearts and fists. Blood-sausage hangs down on greasy thick strings. Black forest cakes rotate in juice rich as cherry ooze from a pulled tooth. She can taste it all. "About death," he says, dropping her hand. He saunters off to buy cheap wine, swinging hair thick a Filipino girl's. He's pale as lard and his knuckle and wrist bones protrude, his collarbones and cheekbones jut like flint. Ambling back, he lifts the bottle like a jug of blood and chugs. Wine sloshes. They come to an freeway entrance ramp. He smacks his puffy lips, "I'm going to home to North Carolina. Wanna come?" The girl says, yes. She steps through patches of broken glass then runs runs -- flat out fast -- after him to the waiting car. Her feet feel happily wet. Yes, red. She's in terrible love.
Stephanie Dickinson