Human Rumaki Machine
There are ten things he says to me, and all of them are perverted. He sits across from me, barely restrained by the physicality of the table between us and the eyes of bystanders fish-hooking our morals and representatives of the establishment meandering here and there, sure to throw us out onto the sand if we misbehave. His hands lack the cumbersome size of mine, are perfect spider-halves when weaving suture-webs for my wounds. His wrappings were bleached before his time, the genes of his ancestors surrendering to millennia of the frigid North’s merciless fist pressing the wine from their pores. His smile fails to reveal sharpened teeth only because his lips do not part. The cowl of platinum filaments framing his features shifts in the breeze; the hostess planted us
