He lay on his blond back in the black metal cage, and I saw myself there, willing, supple, lost. He was very young, very thin, and very well endowed. Faded track marks, like delicate linear tattoos, lined his arm. He’d gotten into the cage on his own accord. I lay in bed, not sure why he’d come with me. He giggled as he crawled, muttering something, then swiftly falling asleep, his legs yanked up akimbo due to his height.
He did not wake up as I did, when the sun rose, nor by noon and I wondered if he were dead and if I could survive prison. While I was showering, sobering up, deciding what to do, he joined me, all lanky and hard and fresh. He soaped and soothed me and said that things would work out. The sheltered young always say things will work out because they have not been on the ot
