by Michael Stang
The refrain entered Joyce’s head as she thought about it for the first time in awhile, since hearing it on the radio. If you care, don’t touch me there, she sang it to herself for the rest of the day and into the night on automatic rewind. Boa picked her up at six to make it to the opening by seven-fifteen. Joyce took a quick hot shower and whispered in the steam don’t touch me there, soap-busied hands not paying attention. The towel didn’t either, it’s terry sucking the water from her body.
Subliminal art shits! The assholes live it, love it, and breathe in nothing. Spent time and money for what? Black on black is black. No shades of black, no burnt fucking umber—black! She lost herself to the back of the heads before her in line. She pictured the madness of these artists—the ultimate intimate expression of waste. She was not polite.
Boa picked his three hundred pounds through the wine and cheese and stood ready for a cigarette.
Why do you come?
You’re something to do.
Fuck you too.
They left breaking each other’s plastic flutes underfoot.
Murder is on the tube tonight. I want to fuck.
Jesus, you’re worse than my towel.
The song ran through her head. Okay, listen up; I want you to hear this.
You got my lighter.
Here. I want anchovies, pineapple, and mushroom with three cheeses, got it?
Then I want a black and white TV night in color, you with me? We snuggle under the covers, watch murder, eat, and sleep it off; I’m expected early in the morning.
Shocked by the sense of it, Hawaii’s own stumbled off the curb. Gravity did the rest. He said everything time allowed. What? No Poi-Poi? What-the-F…
Joyce sang the song out loud on her way home like it was raining and she didn’t care. The key opened her apartment.