There's magic in a chance meeting with that certain someone, that ship that almost passed in the night.
Love doesn't have to be textbook, by the book, or like a fairy tale. Sometimes the magic is just knowing the recipe for love.
Love doesn't have to be textbook, by the book, or like a fairy tale. Sometimes the magic is just knowing the recipe for love.
Eat the Rich by Kevin Garvey
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Dying
for it. But it won't go down. You stick the fork in...the meat is juicy. Lift
it to your lips and take a bite. Savor the tender morsel for a moment, then
begin to chew, slowly, joyously, getting it ready. But before you can
swallow...
***
Hell is cold compared to Tomkins Square in August. The
people stink. Everything stinks and sweats. In the nighttime ooze on a Saturday
night I walked among the masses. Looming in the distance was the great Pyramid.
I approached, seeking to cool darkness within.
At the entrance a fight was on. Nobody broke it up. One of
the fighters fell backwards, cracked his head on the street. Might have been unconscious,
probably worse.
I entered the Pyramid. Pushed and shoved and had a few
drinks. At the end of the bar I met a girl. She said her name was Spike. Said
she was a dancer and liked to do drugs. I had the means to oblige so we went
back to my place and did the obligatory. Had a great time. After that she kind
of moved in. Stayed over off and on for the next six months. We were using each
other but she had a great body.
I saw her around. At the park, Café Mogador, dancing at the
Pussycat Lounge. Sometimes we talked. Other times she didn't notice me. At the
Pussycat she never noticed. Pissed me off but what could I do?
***
You
spit the masticated meat back into the pot and pull out a fresh piece. Maybe
you can swallow this one. Chew and gulp. It's down! No, it's back up. You cough
it into the pot and try again. Same result. Again and again, same result.
Eventually, stomach sore, you give up...
***
When I didn't see Spike at all for six weeks, I said the
hell with it, got laid without her. The evening went limp though, and I
realized I was hung up. A couple days later I spotted her in the park, talking
to some guy. For some reason this enraged me. I went up to them, started
cursing her out. The guy didn't mind his own business and started a fight. Beat
the crap out of me, had me on the ground kicking and stomping. Then they just
walked away.
A few days later Spike showed up at my door saying she wanted
to pick up some clothes she'd left. I let her in, asked her if we could have
sex. Not interested, she said. I don't remember what happened next, only that
she died.
***
You're
used to the smell. You like it. You stir the pot, watching as the meat boils
and falls from the bone. So much meat. Enough to feed an army. A knock at the
door. Another volunteer coming for more stew. You hand over a big pot-full.
Careful, you tell him, it's hot. On his way out he smiles and says: Being
homeless doesn't have to mean being hungry. Right on, you say, and return to
the stove where more stew is simmering. You taste a little. It makes you gag.
Dejected, but glad at least that somebody is enjoying your cooking, you sit
down to a dinner of warm peaches and try to cheer yourself up by pretending
that each juicy mouthful is meat.
