Spark
by Mary Miller
Ryan was always talking about the end of the world. It put a shiny spin like tin foil on everything. I pictured the two of us standing on top of a big ball, a comet on its way: red and blue and trailing flames. We slept together sometimes, usually after one of these talks. He wasn't much but it didn't matter. The point was to get all you could before the lights went out, to fill up. I'd get drunker than usual and crawl into his bed. The carpet and walls were brown like his hair and everything would start to lose its shimmer but then his breath on my ear would bring it back. Make everything tinkle again. Wrap it in crushed silver. And I'd picture us on that ball that was mostly blue, thin as paper dolls on a sliver of green. We're in Iceland, maybe, or Madagascar. And we're smiling and holding hands as the comet comes closer and closer and passes us without so much as a spark.  |
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