Heroin Fairy Tale

Rewind.

   Stop.
   Play.

"Tell me a story,"
she says.
  Her voice is sultry
  little-girl unapologetic
  demanding

"I don't know any stories,
anymore."
  I sound like rough sex
 bad attitude
silk sheets

"Then tell me something pretty,"
She just wants me to talk.
   I remember this.
We are staring
out the windows at streetlights
on the ride home.
   She wants to hear a
   heroin fairy-tale.
We are both very
drunk.

"Ok, lady. Ok...
   Sometimes...

Sometimes I think
 it's not the heat
 it's the humanity
Sometimes I think
 That we only sweat
 because we can't bleed in public.
It's not that it's hot,
 you know?
It's that we're only human,
'n evey time we go to
that fucking place...

Virginia,
I don't feel like
doing this, right now."

"No, honey, you can make it pretty.
Don't stop."

"Ok, lady. Ok...
   Sometimes...

Sometimes I feel like..
Like my chest is going to cave in,
and
  my heart will explode
  out into the night,
ripping through my back
because my ribs have turned
inside out and it'll fly away,
  you know?
Way up in the sky
and
 little drops of blood will fall
 on everyone
 like rain
and I'll feel the wind
in every cockle."

"Cockle?"
 She sounds like
 opera
  when she laughs,
  her head tilts back.

"Fuck you,
 it's my story."

"Ok."

"And I'll rain on..."

I'm wound down.
  Did I look at her?
I think so.

"Virginia, I really don't..."

"Give.
 Me.
 Something.
 Pretty."
I can see the
I-want lines in her forehead
 memory of
 a memory

"Ok, lady. Ok...
   Sometimes...

Sometimes I want a nice little house.
 A little house I can paint black,
 With a swing out in front
 and a garden in back.
I'd decorate it with skulls
and crossbones and..

and..."

"And what?"
 Intent.
I can hear her
leaning in,
   soft breathing.

Almost ranting
fevered waterfall
of words and ideas

"And
 I'd plant
  little pink
  flowers out in front,
  in chrome tubs with
'Fuck you.' painted on the side in bright
 red letters.
The walls inside would all be white
I'd get maroon paint to flick on them,
    so it'd look like a murder
you'd draw on the ceilings,
little angels with broken wings
and ripped up jeans
  Breakfast would be at nine-sharp,
  every morning -
you could wear that
pink fucking retro
apron with the white border,
 you know,
the heart-shaped one
and big black shoes -
A-line dresses with
high zippers in the back,
the ones I always help you with,
and
    you hold your hair
    like a pin-up
    so it doesn't catch in the teeth
You can always use
that long stemmed cigarette holder.

I'd get us the ugliest couch in the world
so we could seal it in plastic and paint little
stick figures on it."

Silence for a few moments,
no sound but
the road,
us smoking

"What else?"

"All the floors could be black and white tiles
and we could use headless dolls for
chess pieces.
I'll use dressed up Kens
and you can have
    Panty-whore
    bondage barbies

We'll only come out at night
and we'll only play metal all day,
but when it's dark
we'll fuck with the
neighbors,
  I'll play Mozart and you'll play
  Vivaldi,
all at the same time
as loud as we can stand.

We'll go to neighborhood watch meetings
in formal wear,
   I'll get a tux with a red jacket
   and a deadly looking
   bow tie.
You can wear that
little black number
that makes all the girls
jealous,
   long gloves -
   The Breakfast At Tiffany's getup,
   remember,
like when we went to
see it at the
midnight movie?"

"Uh-huh,"
 I can hear the smile.

"And you'll always wear pearls
and I'll always wear silver
bracelets and black sport-coats
and the neighbors'll never know
that I work at a concert hall
 slash
 bowling alley.
And you'll dress up in
nineteen fifty
elegance
and the neighbors'll never know
  you sling pizza
  with a red apron on,
  delivering drinks with a
  tired smile...
      Ok?"

"Ok, honey,
 Ok."

I can hear her window roll down,
the sound of wind.
She picks up the recorder
  and there is
   a click.

    Stop.
Rewind.

    Stop.

Play.