my stream of consciousness fails the bechdel test.
by Molly Fisher
he smells fresh, like warm linens strung up on a
clothesline on a sunday afternoon.
my crucifixion. the outer part of my thigh
sins for the leg that does not move away when
accidentally pressed against mine on the subway. aretha’s
natural woman heat. bed-spring bouncing
heartbeat. patchwork chambers sewn and
re-stitched to make more room for whatever that
feeling is that sits between like and love. tip
of my tongue, dangerous l-word. lovely. lovely.
love. he speaks, and he is the same
as i am inside. this is almost unbearable. dripping
down my throat like a leaky faucet, mind turning to
molasses. he doesn’t make me nervous; he makes me
feel. a fuzzy pink robe stuck beside a worn
suede jacket in a dimly lit hallway. twenty years old
and placing the power of lover’s fate
into the hands of a plastic ball that tells me
“outlook not so good” and i shake again.