The sky has dressed for night. Her elegant black dress shimmers with a trillion crystals. I long for their light to lace me. White, almost translucent curtains hang from cold steel rods. They dance towards then spin away from the circling ceiling fan. A curvaceous red lamp solicits the earthy wall. The heat of her womb entices him. Another lamp, of black and blue plastic, separated and gouged through by two rods of steel, stands in the opposite corner of the room. He spews white light onto the still, dark brown book case. All the people shelved there are closed in and quiet. My right hand is wrapped tight around the black butt of the butcher's knife. The naked petals of my left hand millimetre away from each bludgeoning cut into the excoriated breast.
“Where is the heart that once hid behind you?”
The cut and bump of steel through breast onto board beats in my ear. A fine smoke rises as the oil in the pan begins to burn. The gutted tomato halves stand silent. Decoratively sliced to look like lotus flowers, beautifully bloodied. I lift the board of war and wipe clean the plains of battle with the edge of my knife. The ravaged breasts fall into the fire of oil. A denser plume of smoke rises from the pan. I turn the shreds over, coating them in hot oil. The clock lives on the wall. My friend will be here soon. Is she the one I've been waiting for?
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