babyhead

The snow falls and gathers.

I find myself in an apartment on the other side of town, on the other side of the railroad tracks. There is a woman who called me at work to see if I had left, to make sure I didn't get lost is the storm. To make sure I was coming. Her socks dry inside out on the coffee table. She won't look me in the eye.

I drink bourbon from a yellow mug. The kind of yellow that begs for a smiley face.

Weezer plays and I look at a section of the living room floor that once held a drunk girl on her back. She was laughing, her dress remained blue and around her neck. That night, there were forty-three more people in this room. It was Halloween, and boys played craps on the sidewalk.

That was the last time I was here.

The boy who lives here now says: I didn't live here then.

The snow falls and gathers.

There is smoke and more bourbon.

40 stuffed animals surround me. All their pelts have been removed, turned inside out and reattached. They can no loner see anything but their own poly-fiber insides. There is a pink cat on the floor whose eyes are large and blank. On the kitchen table its removed skeletal frame teeters on back and forth, crying: "mew-mew" at random points in the conversation.

At some point there is just smoke.

Music, dance, electronic dance music. The sounds of balloons being hit.

Roughhoused. Made to talk.

I have trouble speaking and listening. The sounds are transcendent. I mean, the repetition of sounds make one feel transcendent.

There are a hundred cereal box faces pinned on the wall.

Someone in the room puts on a rabbit mask and looks away. The long furry ears fall over their shoulders, as they cross their legs at the knees and blow smoke rings.

Her toes curl and hold the base of the chair, as she looks out the window.

The snow falls and gathers.

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