Dr. Guinevere and Mrs. Vak

Her face is presented to her. It approaches on tall heels, squeezed into the world. It grins easily; feels no qualms, little loyalty.

She apes indifference.

They circle each other, hungry and parched. They arm themselves with the cool, careful sidesteps of convention; but leaks have become breaks, the dam is rushing down.

They exchange pleasantries. They exchange horror stories of weather in a vacuum. Their fingers twitch, they itch, but there is such a little large distance.

It’s a taut distance, a string of tension; a piano string hollow vibrating to light tap, tap, tap. It’s a barrier. It’s thoughtless, violent, crass. They yearn for it and hate it as they yearn for and hate the other of each other.

Gradually the string twists– it draws them in. It draws their circle into a smaller and smaller circumference; it spirals in until they pant into each other’s mouths, until they bare their teeth, until they can no longer twitch and itch but must rip.

They rip into each other’s skin– they’re so hungry, so starved. They cut up each other’s clits, rip each other into strips, they suck each other dry to slake their thirsts and




They’re sated.

Stumble and slur into a single form. Precarious, uneasy, but drunk, drunk on the capability of anything–

and stare out from two gouged-out eyes, into a world of mundane impossibilities.