MOOD THEORY

flash fiction

I am not performance art. You can’t just stand there and look at me as if I’m some fucking museum piece. I have a name, you know. A NAME. I have a physique with Lysippan proportions; I tower over you grandly. The roses you offer mean nothing. Wilt and die, wilt and die. Why don’t you think of something that lasts?

It’s too dark in this room, too dark. I can barely see you. Come closer, let me touch your sleeve, prove to me you’re here, touch me back, bend down and kiss me, right here, yes, that’s it, there. And there too. Keep going, you’re doing good, don’t stop. I love it when we do this, I really do, it makes me go crazy, it makes me forget about what will happen tomorrow when I’ll hate your fucking guts again and go ballistic on you when you speak even a word. So shutup—right now just shutup and keep that motion going and pretend all of this is—what is it called again?—Love?