FREAK BEHAVIOR!

You point out where you live on a map app but I already knew the name of your neighborhood because I tracked what direction you took from two different stations on two separate occasions and triangulated the likely location of your house. “Oh, interesting,” I say, breezily, taking mental note of the exact door number. My hair, out of its typical tail, is a loose curtain over the magic glow of your phone; I resurface through the smoke and make sudden contact with the newly gentle, off-guard tilt to your lower face. My heart cracks a little—you feel so innocent to me, despite everything—and almost I decide to take pity, but then I don’t. The morning after, walking to the drugstore before the coming storm in my pajama shorts, I can feel the sting of sugar on my incisors. I need to brush my teeth; I need to eat more fiber. I need to perform three sets to failure. I need to diversify my intake of amino acids. I need to take my imported rounds of magnesium glycinate thirty minutes before…

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