Cecil unzipped his smile. “Why are you here,” he swooped, “It’s one-thirty in the morning. Do you want me to ruin you like a refugee camp? Again?” My underwear knotted into a fist.
I wanted to break his teeth like the glass in a house of reptiles, extract the tar from his lungs like fudge then feed it to unattended children willing to say “yes, please”. I wanted panic to blossom from his cheeks; it would make such a lovely bouquet.
I fell through Cecil’s door like an abandoned smoke stack. When I clawed my way out, the sun scolded my spine.