FLY, MY PRETTY

C E Hoffman

          My new pimp’s across the street.

          I don’t know how I can see him when I’m on the third floor, and I don’t know how I know it’s him when I’ve never seen him before, but he is clear in my mind as crystal: I can tell from the strut.

          Soon he’ll be up the stairs, through the door, and I tell myself, “You don’t have to do this. You can leave whenever you want.”

          I see the balcony through those big glass patio doors, and I run and jump!, but I know I’ll never fall.

          I catch the undercurrent. SWOOP! and flap of arms.

          I am over the buildings, and everywhere.

          I forgot how good it felt to fly! Dead memories rush back to life: nights and days wind flattered my face, as free as anyone could be.

          I soar. I smile.

          Soon I am higher than clouds.

          Up here, it’s only birds and me.

          Up here no one can touch me.

          I know I can’t keep the peak, so I dip to caress the tips of trees. I decide to follow the left road: it looks dangerous, beautiful. The wind has other plans. Once I veer West, she knocks me back, a gulping gushing gust. I grab a branch, it snaps.

          “Okay: I’ll trust the wind.”

          LEAP! The wind lifts me like a babe, rushes me East.

          For a moment I think I’m even higher than before. Clouds cover me in swarms, but this is fog. I should have known when the hawks didn’t follow.

          The fog opens for reckless rocks jutting from ocean.

          Fear is for those who aren’t brave enough to fly.

          I screech, duck and dive. The waves crash but the rocks sink and blue stretches above and below.

          Now there is nothing but me.

          I’ve never been this far out to sea. The sun falls, the moon rises to tuck it to sleep, and I learn the ocean is alive, and angry. Waves turn to mouths with huge throats and bigger teeth and they snap, snap, snap; I curl my toes, suck my breath and reeeeach.

          Even this close to death, I laugh.

          The moon falls. The ocean melts. I’m neither falling nor flying; now it’s somersaults through space. When I roll right-side-up I’m in a hot spring, and strange, yellow smiles surround me, like the t-shirts that say “Have a nice day”, and they speak with bubbles above their heads like those comic books I bought from drugstores as a kid and they say, “Who’s this?” and, “You’re an ace!”

          I wonder where my wings went because I am armless. I think, “Is this the future?” and I’m terrified.

          A smile separates from the crowd. They look soft, and they have arms, and they’re reaching out to me and my own arms grow back because I’m dying for intimacy.

          Freedom’s fine, but nothing beats being held.

          I submit to a deep, dark hug, one that swallows, forgives, and protects.

          I forgot how much I loved this.

          The hot spring cools. The smiles disappear.

          My new pimp holds me under his head. I am soothed by the rhythm of his chest. I don’t know how I know him but I think I always did; I don’t know how I can be everywhere at once or how freedom is a feeling in my mouth, folded in my wings, tucked under my belt, and that’s why I’m never afraid.

          “Where’d you get to?” he says. “I came upstairs and you were gone!” The End