Apocalyptic Love

From the far end of fiction, I spot the redhead in one of the two easy chairs by the cafe at

the front of the bookstore. She has green eyes I could fall into, a sheer white blouse, and black high heels. Her leopard skin skirt rides high on her thigh as she reads Soft Smut, an oversized paperback, French kissers on the cover.

A dude in a navy blue suit, whose cut can’t hide his sleaziness, sits beside the redhead. He’s got a coffee-table book of Italy open on his lap as he sneaks peeks at her.

I put my opera glasses back in my pocket and pretend I’m scanning the shelves for a good read. Not that I’m into opera. I hate it, even though friends tell me I’ll love it if I cultivate a taste. They’re wasting their breath. I’ll never cultivate a taste for anything, but for times like this, I love my glasses.

Finally the redhead uncrosses her long legs and gets up. She saves her seat with Soft Smut, and walks to the restroom.

I go up to the dude in the suit and point at her chair. “Anybody sitting here?”

He looks at me disturbing his hot dream. “Yes,” he says and points at her book. “She’s coming right back.”

“I don’t see anybody sitting here.” I throw her book on the floor and sit in her chair. “Wait, now I do.”

He glares at me and raises his voice. “She was saving her seat with that book.”

“Well, this is my seat now, and I’ll deck her or anybody else who tries to take it,” I say, punching my palm and locking eyes with him.

He clenches his jaw, then straightens his jacket which doesn’t need it, and scowls at the full-page photo of a Tuscan villa leaning between his legs.

I keep staring at him, waiting, till he takes a breath and hisses, slams his book shut and gets up. He makes a big show of gathering his stuff, hisses again, and stalks off.

I put the redhead’s book back on her chair, and sit in the one he left. I see myself raising her skirt, stroking her thighs. She sits on a cafe table as I stand, swaying between her legs, espresso cups smashing on the floor. Now we’re in my hammock under the sugar maple, the tip of me throbbing as she licks me like a lollipop by our mint juleps. We star in Soft Smut II, book and movie, and get so rich we don’t have to work anymore, crazy in love and here she comes, sashaying back from the restroom, heels clicking, breasts bobbing in her see-through blouse.

She smiles as she passes the cookbooks, and I do fall into those translucent green eyes where we are Adam and Eve sharing the apple. We eat the core, seeds, stem, even the serpent disguised as a worm. We eat the apple and kick back on the ergonomic flora, belching merrily.

She picks up her Soft Smut and winks at me. I fall back in my chair, catching my breath as she walks to the front desk.

She buys the book and drives to my place. She’s never been there but knows the way since we’re reading each other’s mind, perfectly.

I follow, hearing explosions and passing cars pulled off the road. “This is it,” the guy on the radio says. “They’ve launched the missiles and we’re all going to die.”

I park behind her car in my driveway. The earth rumbles as I get out and go through the backdoor I left unlocked just for her. I grip the banister, climb the stairs.

She sits naked on my bed, with a ravishing tear-stained smile. She’s turned on the TV and the anchorman sobs at his desk.

“If you’re watching me, then hug someone,” he says. “Hug your loved one or friend. Hug your pet. Hug the stranger sitting beside you. And if you’re alone, hug yourself before it’s too late.”

I lie in my bed and gaze up at my ceiling mirror, watching the redhead ride me in the thunder of nuclear war. Her eyes flutter as she throws her head back and moans. We haven’t said a word and I don’t even know her name, as I see us forever together in the slivers of falling glass.

The Control Freak’s Guide to Hallucinating

When your face went wavy and your voice sounded like a hyena’s, you pushed the guidebook across the table, pointed, and said, “Read this.”

It was all I could do to steady my eyes on the print.

“When you think you’re losing your mind,” it said, “that is the time to let go, and your madness will turn into vision.”

I read it out loud three times, not so you’d hear me, but so I’d hear myself, the sound of my voice, my tongue and lips moving, bringing me back to my body.

“It’s not for your comfort zone,” you said and raised your cup. “To your health!” As you drank, I tasted the Lapsang souchong all the way down to my stomach where goateed opium fiends puffed well-packed hookahs.

“Your cup is empty,” you said. “Let me fill it.” As you poured me tea, steam rose in rings through the roof of my immaculate condo and surrounded the moon and stars, turning them into a billion Saturns.

“Now read the next sentence,” you said.

“Live through all five senses and back them with wonder, your strongest sense of all.”

I read it out loud, once, and sipped my tea. My tongue burst into talking taste buds telling tales of culinary and erotic delight.

You reached over and shut the book. “You don’t need this or me anymore,” you said. “You’re on your own now.”

Your face faded before my eyes.

“I’ve longed for this moment,” came your voice from where your mouth had been. “I’ve wanted to disappear, leaving no trace. So don’t think I’m coming back.”

I watched the rest of your body vanish, from your neck down to your feet. Kapoof, even your clothes! How did you do that?

I jumped up, shook the book over my head, and screamed, “Yahhhh! Yahhhh! Yahhhh!”

A winged stallion rose under me, lifting me through the roof, into the sky. When we could fly no higher, I threw the book down and cheered as it landed in the jittery hands of the next control freak afraid of losing his mind.

The Hook Awaits the Thaw

You know the story. A young couple is parked on Lovers’ Lane. A slow tune plays on the radio. As things heat up in the front seat, a news flash comes on. The Hook has escaped from prison. The Hook is a rapist and killer, with a steel claw in place of his right hand. He stalks teenagers. When he sees one, he froths at the mouth and cries, “Bloody murder!”

The girlfriend pulls back from the boyfriend and says, “I’m scared.”

“C’mon, honey, there’s nothing to be scared of,” the boyfriend says. “You know the prison is way across town.”

The girlfriend shuts off the radio, wipes the steamy window, peers out at the night. “I hear something,” she says.

The boyfriend tries to hear past his breathing. He starts to roll down his window, but the girlfriend stops him. “I don’t hear anything,” he says and kisses her.

She pushes him away. “Something’s out there. Something’s out there, I know.”

He listens again, hears nothing. “If you love me, honey,” he says, “don’t slam on the brakes.”

She clutches his arm. “Get me out of here. Please hurry, before it’s too late!”

He pushes her away. “You’re too jumpy for your own good. You’re a real drag.”

He starts the car, turns on the lights, and peels rubber up Lovers’ Lane. He roars through town, running red lights and stop signs. He can’t wait to get rid of her. Hunched over the wheel, he doesn’t speak as he hustles the girlfriend back to her place.

“Thank you,” she says as he curbs his machine. “Thank you for taking me home when you did.” She lets out a sigh and kisses him goodnight. A big whopper, smack on the lips.

The boyfriend grins, feeling like her savior. He jumps out and strides around the car to get the door for her.

That’s when he sees a bloody hook dangling from the handle.

#

“The number of The Hook’s victims has decreased markedly,” the anchorman says, “even though he escapes from prison as often as he did before cars had bucket seats and door handles he can’t latch on to. For the last three decades, The Hook has failed to customize his crude prosthetic to adhere to the inset handles on vehicles favored by all the teenagers who fear him.”

#

“It was an unidentified caller,” the 911 dispatcher told us, on the night we found The Hook sprawled in the ditch by Lovers’ Lane, which was deserted. Light pollution from the new strip mall had driven most young couples off to darker, more private haunts, whose whereabouts eluded this antiquated fiend sprawled on the abandoned road.

We thought he was dead until we heard his faint breathing. His face was shriveled and cracked, his clothes in shreds. He stank like a rotting ham and his right arm was green from what looked like botched attempts to upgrade his steel claw into a more versatile appendage. We thought he’d die on the way to the hospital.

#

“The demise of a living legend leaves in the heart a vacuum many vainly try to fill with nostalgia,” the anchorman says. “But today, teenagers across the country celebrated the death of The Hook.”

#

The boyfriend and girlfriend are fucking in the backseat of his parents’ PT-Cruiser, parked in the weeds of a construction site. The doors are locked, the windows shut, the moon is full, and “Love Me Tender” plays on the oldies station.

A news flash comes on. “The Hook is not dead. We repeat, The Hook is not dead. He’s been cryonized, his body medically frozen to stop further destruction of cell tissues. Until we develop the technology to revive The Hook, his suspended animation will be paid for by National Public Radio.”

The girlfriend tenses and says, “I’m scared of him.”

“Who, Elvis?” the boyfriend snickers as the tune comes back on.

“No, The Hook. He’s not dead like I thought. Like everyone thought.”

“Yeah, well, a whole lotta harm he’ll do on ice,” the boyfriend says, humping her again. “Like what are they waiting to thaw him out for? Another line of cars with retro door handles like this one? Except for music you can’t trust what you hear on the radio these days. Now c’mon, baby doll, let’s steam up the windows.”

“No, no!” cries the girlfriend, trying to push him off. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here. Take me home!”

She sees the silver in the wings of his smile, before he closes his lips over hers, muffling her screams. She twists her head away and says, “He’s out there! Now please get off me, please. Start the car and take me home!”

The boyfriend pulls away, leans between the front seats, and looks at himself panting in the rearview mirror. “Nothing’s worse than a frigid girlfriend,” he says and shakes his head, his well-trained curl bobbing on his brow.

She pulls down her skirt and cowers. “Take me home, please!”

He knows she’s scared, but also knows the best way to overcome a phobia is through exposure therapy. “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself,” he says. He zips up his fly, unlocks his door, and gets out in the starry night.

“Come back,” she says. “Come back here! Don’t leave me!”

The boyfriend swaggers around the car, singing loud enough to wake the birds. He swivels his hips and chortles at the shadows. He embodies a machismo he believes will wipe out her irrational fear. He’s her boyfriend and her therapist both. An unbeatable combination.

“I wish you were somebody else,” he says, clawing at her window when he sees how terrified she looks, her hand on the lock. “I wish I was somebody else. The Hook, even. Yeah, the Hook.” He rolls his eyes and snarls, “Then I’d show you! Scare the pants off you! Serve you right!”

The girlfriend sits up and shakes her finger at him. “Be careful what you wish for,” she says. “You may get it.”

The boyfriend tries to speak, but he can’t open his mouth. He tries to pull back his hands, but they won’t budge. He tries to turn away from her laughing face, but he can’t move, can’t even close his eyes. Now comes the cold, colder than any cold he’s ever known. It freezes his flesh and blood, trapping his screams inside him.

The girlfriend climbs into the driver’s seat. She turns off the radio, starts the car, and takes off. Watch her and wave if you like, as she rides into the moonset without her seat belt on.