Ian,
The school was small, and haunted. The young girl who crept the halls at night favored the room of her humiliation, and all the players of my life lined up to watch me sift through the malicious wreck inside the classroom of old transparencies and wooden desks to find the grip on her.
When I was in 8th grade, I got in trouble for writing into my science notebook a story about contacting a girl named Laura on a Ouija board. I had intended to tell someone it was true, but it wasn't, and I never got around to it, anyway.
The sickness of a girl in a room, long black desks worn with the sweat of palms, I can't quite... figure out why I keep dreaming of these girls, unless I'm Adam and I never really knew it.
She left a pile of her things outside by the dumpster. We found it, me and the non-specific specter of you/Brad/Bonnie/Clyde. Her fox things, the clues to where she'd been. There was jewelry hidden there, maybe her mother's.
Written on paper was an inscription that I read carefully before putting it in my mouth; MARK TWAIN. Having ingested the fox of her, we left. I wonder if she was me.
The last night I spent with you, we fucked on the tracks of a recently passed train, all our objects destroyed by it's weight on the rails. Some things sparked, and failing to derail the train, we made a bonfire of our transgression. As you slid inside me, I felt the panic of you rising to some climax before we'd reached any of our conclusions, and you choked on a sound in your throat.
Love,
Annik
