by Kristen Abate
(Originally published in Sand Hill Review 2014)
Remember the night we got lost in space? That was the night I fell in love with you. You handed me some ground up chocolate concoction and told me to swallow, not chew. You did that a lot: handed me things—blue pills, white powders, chocolate potions—and told me to take them. I always did—most times it turned out okay. Usually it was some sort of magic. When it wasn’t, you told me it was because I doubted you. You handed me the shit, and I did as you said. It tasted like rotten meat, mixed with Hershey’s.
The sun slid behind a rock formation that stood like a giant red ship, rising from the desert, coming back from the land of no-return. The sun clung to the horizon, making the sun to glow amber and changing thin clouds into fiery waves. Behind us, the heavens stretched like a black sheet, peppered with grey puffs of cotton, expanding and expanding until it met the desert floor.