My Cardboard Balcony

Futile Resuscitation by Belinda Roddie There's been an accident on 101, just off the last exit leading to the lips of my hometown. Thin kisses linger on the steering wheel, while the head bleeds sweet love, love, love. I perform CPR on the passenger, and the rain comes down like an unnecessary blanket. A cold one, too. My hands are blue, and the exertion makes my own ribs feel bruised. It's okay, I whisper to an unhearing ear. You're okay, we're okay, we're going to be okay. The traffic will keep flowing forward like the river in a clock. Tick, tock, one, two, three, breathe, rasp, wheeze. By the time the paramedics arrive, my body's grown numb. I seek refuge in my own tired sedan. After answering some questions, I gesture toward the sky. The storm's beginning to roar, and I'd like to get home. I don't like tempting fate.

Arvey breathed deeply and felt her body relax. In literal uncharted territory in the west, she was facing uncharted territory of her own. Her fingers stretched out for something to grab, and that something was the front of her companion's shirt. Pulling her toward her. Feeling her mouth pressed against her chapped lips. Quinoni smelled like tobacco and tasted like sweet, dried sap.