Re: the reunion; cas & mat
Well, he needn’t prescribe the packing down of that unforeseen nostalgia, twice. It had been perfectly unwelcome for the Queen of Swords to ache. Chalky swampbones plucked out of enflowered guttermuds are her endowments now, rheumy-eyed cadavers, humid seasons in hell. Not those memorials losing color in the feretory of her mind, thumbtacked with clamorous beating sounds of slot machines, technicolored cigarettes, laughter that melts down into the pornographic armatures of Dionysian vignettes. Defunct, miles away, let those haunt the homesick strip of Las Vegas.
Like a liar at a witch trial, a carefully curated smile is presented here. A rile within the bloodbeat of her kicking off, hurt herself, you say?
“You’re right. I apolo—OW!” a theatrical jolt. A golden globe clench of her hewn, leftward collarbone, “I apolo—OUCH. IT HURTS. I’M HURTING MYSELF!” And then, just like that, she’s restored. “Don’t get the fucking upholstery sticky, honey.” she scintillates willfully, speaking of the now slowed, cloying overture of sparking surf, that had quivered over his knuckles in an arterial foam. There’s a lighterflick, a lucent streak in the duets shared, moonmilk darkness. The ember of the cigarette palpitates like a living organ, paling and darkening. She shuts the car door. The smooth, suicidal engine wakes up. They slice into the street with her cigarette bitten between a pearlescent duo of cuspids, her asking him “Do you have an indoor pool? If so, that’s where we’re going. I don’t give a shit about a lake monster, unless I can summon it to do me a favor if I ever need one, with some top shelf, spellcraft straight out of Morgan Le Fey’s vagina.”
Who cares?
“For research purposes. I’m an archeologist now, couldn’t you tell? I just love digging up the past.” but then, “Just kidding. I’m a witch.” not that he’d believe her anyway. “Give me a sip or I’ll make you punch yourself in the dick.”