Lit

He likes girls skinny and primed to ignite, and he knows you know his tone, even in another tongue.  He’s at the door, waiting to walk you home, to brave the twelve blocks back to the bar.  Full of immigrants and criminals, he says, and winks, and holds out his arm.  He’s got some kind of honey, a whole other language he lets loose.  He finds a corner booth, buys as many drafts as you’ll down, sings with the sailors all their lovesick songs.  You feel flooded, oozing, carried along.  He can roll two twists at the same time, one in each hand, and after he draws his tongue across the papers, flicking at the ends, you know just what he wants his mouth on.  He dances them in front of you, telling you to choose.  You pick a fist and smoke it fast, and soon—when he’s staggering through your skirts, babbling into your chest, hobbling under your collar—he’s dreamt tremor, chemical rattle. He latches on, makes you laugh and laugh.  When he’s done you’re no longer glass and gristle.  When it’s over you’re gem and ash.