You (21 years old, jondice blonde, elementary speech impediment traces, perfect straight teeth without the evidence of braces. Weak vocabulary, arms that pin me up against walls, arms that never shake. Boy with grey sweater, calloused hands and childish laugh. Not sober.) ask me (Brunette nebula, French Kiss Rocket Scientist with cigarette calorie kryptonite. Acne scar and freckle constellations. Girl who loves you, would never tell you, out loud.) to meet you, in the park outside my apartment at 2 in the morning simply because you know I’ll show up.
The park, my park, is dark dry and tumored with red maple, elm and pine. I’m staring into inside from the street under a light so you can see me, but nothing moves. You’re hiding. No. You’re inviting. You run in the background, dodging tree trunks, trash cans, and playground equipment. You, inebriated apparition, butcher of slumber. Boy who expands my ribcage, gorges my pink lungs with ugly white smoke, whose name I breathe cough and choke, are playing a game.
Street light halo, sleep walking red riding hood (me) I hear vivid and ghastly “come find me.” And I take off into the park. Drop dead sprint, heels kissing asphalt, concrete, and then dirt, pine needles and sawdust. And I can hear you sense the chase and your sneakers smacking against the ground from eleven different directions.
You, champagne hallucination, breathing heavy and laughing are leaving audio fingerprints which my ears are obsessing. Under my red hood I’m searching, racing, climbing, trying to decipher the difference between what is wood, bark, pulp and what is blush skin cells, intoxicated muscle fiber, and boy consciousness. You, drunken shadow poltergeist, are haunting me on this playground. And I, eager and faint valentine wonder to myself: when did this autumn night become so hot?
The soil beneath my flats begins to tip, and I swallowed into inertia suddenly recognize every pound of me, which is falling hard into grass and dirt. We (limbs, bones, synapses, brain and breath) are fainting. And for the next 12 seconds, as a single unit will envelope into horrid black secret.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
You, green center hazel iris, have rushed out of underground to rescue me. This was how I won the game, with low blood sugar and organic adrenaline.
You say: Red Riding Hood, I’m sorry.
I say: You’re killing me. Now, what is it you want at 2:14 in the morning?
