“How do you do that thing you do?”
“I don’t know.”
Smoke curled grey in the dark violet around her lips. She shrugged the leather strap tight into her neck and tossed her strong chin away to the infinity with great affinity for fading darkness no one owes.
A siren whirred and wailed between drum splashes and the laughing of wet pride.
She called him ‘faggot’ and told him to cry.
He said he’d write her a poem and she said just masturbate or die.
He bought her a drink and she punched him in the nose.
The night was dry and she smiled, feeling wry though far from pride.