My Cardboard Balcony

An All-Consuming Passion by Belinda Roddie The stardust tonight is thick. It is served hot, with sugar, in mugs. You expect the stinging sensation of fireworks in between your teeth as you swallow. A metaphor ironically cooled down, for the sake of savoring a heat that cannot be digested by a human being. But the heat is bearably overwhelming, and here, on a mattress deflating under our weight, I feel your pulse quickening like the current of bay water outside our window. There is a reminder of cosmos on your tongue, tasting me, sampling me, like fine cuisine on a sizzling black plate. How long will it be until I grow exhausted and yearn for something cold to be pressed against my forehead, drawing the flame out in a single globule so it can be dropped into a cup and sealed like a palpitating mass of excited fireflies? And will you find solace in kissing the perspiration on my brow, the salt as sharp as stars, the things we give a texture to even when

Being the chief of operations gave me considerable leverage over the day-to-day routines of the workers, though some of them were either too dense or too unwilling to imagine that I was in charge. One particular worker who directed the assembly lines liked to call me "miss" and ask if I would bring a pot of coffee for him and his staff in their breakroom. I responded by literally smacking him upside the head, then revealing my badge from the left breast of my red jacket. He hadn't bothered me since.