The Color of Closed Eyelids

From the jukebox comes the sound of white guys strumming guitars despite needle holes in their corkboard arms.  At the bar, men with wet kitten haircuts soak their elbows in condensation while attempting pumice conversations. They lick liquor, holding their highballs as ice melts, diluting happiness.
+++++He doesn’t want to gawk at others or hear about someone’s day. He lets out a whimper while washing his wound and swallows.  He is a fish born with a hook in its mouth, searching for a line, a tug in a new direction, an act against will.
+++++The night is paved with salty matches in his stomach and lighter fluid in his glass.  Each swallow swell until he swells. He reaches the bathroom where a chowder of half digested earth, bits still with bite marks in soup, is exhumed. He exits and returns to his glass. Half empty, half full, it doesn’t matter as long as there’s still half.

“You’re pale,” she interrupts.
“I’m fine.”
“…look at me…”

For a moment he imagines standing on the fire escape of her eyes, taking in the night sky.

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Ateet Tuli lives and works in NYC. He can be reached at ateet.tuli AT gmail.com.