It is early morning. The buildings penning us into this corner of the city are so tall that the sunlight has not broken over them yet. It's broad day out there somewhere. We are so inside of this thing. Waiting until it's overhead to see light.
There is only this fine, particulate laden mist.
Sometimes there is a funnel cloud that appears outside the window this early in the morning, and I like to watch it moving. People like to watch me move sometimes. It goes like this: A columnar spiral extends slowly out and then reaches across the horizon, quickening. It’s tapered to a point that sways slowly and deliberately as it progresses. Its motion resembles an animal tongue. There is something muscular to its movement. It passes closely in front of me. It's smaller, eroded, now the circumference of my waist, and I wrap two arms around it. It does not feel like anything to hold it.
I let go, and nothing has changed. I am so happy because there's nothing here I care to change.
Later on, we go to the coffee shop downstairs, a woman is talking. She says, It’s like the pain has been transferred to the objects surrounding it, and we all feel this. The room is silent yet we know. How true, I say in a serious voice. And a scared little boy sounds just like a woman on the verge of climax, she adds.
The sun is overhead now, and today the high is 98. With the humidity it feels like 102, according to the heat index. Microscopic superficial cerebral veins are contracting and expanding, contracting and expanding in my skull. They are like little sperms mechanically fastened to each other human centipede style, I imagine.
It's finally time to think about why I am here. It's around 11:45 in the morning, and I'm waiting for a bus.
The seat I've been perched on is so hot. But the heat feels good and I can feel the outline of my ass seared into the bench. Or is it the other way around? I'm suddenly infantile. Someone said I didn't have a lot to say.
It's hard being here like this with you. There are too many people.
You are so nice. You are going to pick me up and take me somewhere nice. You touch my hand and lead me to a darkened room in the back. The hallway is very long, and I know why. I am not scared because I don’t know anything, and I am helpless to change.
Lily Jo Bix-Daw (b. 1999) is a writer and artist based in Western Massachusetts and received a BA in Painting from University of Massachusetts. instagram: @glass_buny