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Hands
My roommate is hot breath through a straw. Precise, urgent, skinny. Late Friday night she sears through our door in a short raspberry dress. She throws handfuls of money into the dead summer air. Her cackles jar my skull while I grab a bunch. Dirty, dirty. Her nails look cracked. I remember: the blonde hash like a bumpy gold brick resting on my metacarpals, her cough bouncing off my body and our windows streaking with smoker’s glare. Her declaration: I can totally handle it. I stared down old cuts almost deep enough to kiss the carpus; my scantily clad cluster of bones. Marlboro smoke cavorts around our lungs. I ask her what the john was like and her smile crinkles down. Does it matter? I shrug, keep counting the money.
