Everything is as I expected it would be.
Rebecca Cross

Tiny arms graze the metal. Tiny fingers reach down the throat and pluck out the pit. Things tumble down. Hair slips out of its knot and falls below the shoulders. Toys spring out of arms and are trampled by tiny, merciless feet. Panties slide down around ankles. Flowers bloom suddenly, out of nowhere. Tables are memorized, forgotten, misplaced. Overtures are refused. Words are recalled just as the moment for using them passes. Recipes will be followed exactly. Articles of clothing will be removed, pins extracted. Needles will be used instead. Fires are allowed to burn themselves out. Animals butcher themselves. The sick bear themselves away on stretchers. The reflexive verb comes into favor. Teeth burst rinds. Ears prepare themselves for silence. Drinks are half drunk, then scooted to the edge of the table by embarrassed patrons. The intangible suffers a stroke, has to use a cane. No one explains things anymore. The answer is taken for granted. Blood is extracted, pleasantries exchanged. Strangers offer consolation. The gash on one's skin is forgotten. A color exists when there is none of that color. The item sits finely on a point. A slender, grey thread is expected to hold things together. Everyone thinks about it. The metal will catch the lip. The lip will not forget. Whatever time we spoke of, it is now.

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