FREAK BEHAVIOR! (II)

Waiting at the ruby diadem of the traffic light, scarfing down a bread roll so soaked in industrial-grade butter I can feel it insta-coat the inside of my mouth, a sudden film of fat across the entire tooth-studded half-sphere, and this doubling of sensation—the meaty, constellated texture of my inner cheek, now coupled with this cow-jolted, oiled, palatable surface—forces a vivid realization, that I am just a thing with many openings. Holes, you could say. A hole for dirty looks, another for the gag reflex. A bicyclist with no lights on hits me at ten in the evening, screaming as he makes contact. For weeks after, I feel a phantom pain in one half of my body, though I have no memory of the impact. Here, open your hand, and take this experience of the accident as a misguided analogy for my lovesickness. He didn’t even look back in his rearview. He didn’t even look back! Making up my mind though I already made my bed which is to say, my fate is sealed. Will the doctor see me now?…