PG. ONE

Only one type of sunshine makes it through the leaves at that intersection of her street and his. And it carries with it secrets from some alternate past, some other venue playing host to this selfsame set of characters crafted from clay rather than meat — the moral lessons of which seem, at the time, at least to her, to contain the sort of improbable instructions one might want to apply quickly, directly and with vigor, to the skin of life well lived in the midst of carnage, carnage at the end of his story.
          In other words: It is red.
          She thought about the shape of his head and about him smiling down at her the way he did and how it made her happy to see him smile that way, the way he did, smiling a way that made her remember having seen the words bliss parade in all-caps, in Old English, in pink spray-paint flowing out over the piggish midsection of some wheat pasted Yogi Bear with cartoonish smiling eyes, flexing disproportionately large biceps shaped the way ice cream lumps lack cones for holding sometimes.
          Moreover, she wants for him to be a part of her or else her a part of him. And so she tries like hell to drink enough of him in that she might, however improbably, transform from inside out and then be lifted up and then be lowered down and then be rolled out and over the whole long length of him, of his story, so that he would still be able to control both sets of skin from within that double-sack of flesh and bone and bloody puss someone else might call a body in some other place, some other time.