we pull off an exit just after taking the lead. the turn is too sharp for him to follow. we barely keep the car upright.
at a party, there is a band singing a song that he used to sing and we say that things are different now, not as good but it had to be this way, it had to. a watered down version of something so real it terrified us down to the core.
follow me he says and we'll finish this once and for all. and we go because he has this pull. we want to see the crash. and in a back room he has a folder on all his lovers, past and present. and we are in there, as proof, as evidence - a list of poetry and songs and things full of love and pain and the art that comes from it. this is his currency. he has built a world, a reputation on collecting such things.
and he starts his preposition and it sounds like a threat, an ultimatum. that's not how it works. i say. you make an offer and we accept or we walk away. back to the sad band upstairs that sounds nothing like how i want it to sound.
and he has this other representation of him - his henchmen - standing at the pool table. he is made of fire - the soft sort of flames with no peaks. he asks for a kiss and i do not know who he means. the door is locked and i regret coming down this way.
