Phallus for the Sky - #fridayflash

A gorgeous shot from Icy Sedgwick's photo prompts.

"Hey honey."

"Oh for God's sake, Earth."

"I know you see it. It sure sees you."

"Put that away. It's not even morning. I'm tired."

"I can see the sun behind those clouds! Come on, it's the weekend."

"Where'd the romance go? You're all architecture these days."

"I sent you that shuttle!"

"I know it's the last one, Earth. All your TV satellites are floating in me."

"Have I told you that you look spacious lately?"

"I'm going back to bed."

"I bet a full moon will be out!"

"You're the worst planet I've ever dated. Pluto never needed artistic viagra."

"And look what happened to him! No, baby. I got you figured. You go take a nap. Dream on all this. "

"The single worst planet I've ever..."

White Knighting

Discussed feminism with my girlfriend. She didn't understand why I kept walking in L-shapes around her. I explained that I was White Knighting her.

We broke up.

Bathroom Monologue: At Our Best

He set aside his entire evening. He spent half a month's salary on bribes to get them a table at the city's most exclusive restaurant. He bought her the best chocolates. He found her favorite wine, in its best year.

Nervous, he showered three times and used that cologne he couldn't stand, but that she said reminded her of the ocean. She loved the ocean. So he made sure that their table overlooked it.

He had his best suit dry-cleaned and held off wearing it for a month, saving it just for that night. He wore the tie she'd gotten him last year. He got a dozen black roses, and put them in a bouquet with a dozen white ones. In the very center, he placed a single, brilliant red rose. That bouquet sat on the middle of their table for two hours as he waited for her. She never came. At the stroke of ten, he looked out at the night city skyline. His jaw fell as he realized. He'd forgotten to invite her.

Bathroom Monologue: He/She

Her dress was soaked.

His umbrella was broad.

Her shiver was enticing.

His chivalry was charming.

They stood together for the ferry.

She wrung out her skirt over the edge of the dock.

He struggled not to stare at cotton-silhouetted curves.

She asked about his accent.

He called it “Nova Scotian.”

She’d always wanted to visit the Americas.

He’d always wanted to leave them.

She’d heard Americans were full of vitality.

He’d heard Europeans lived longer.

She’d like to see their wilderness.

He’d like to taste their wine.

She owned a vineyard.

He blessed their luck.

She invited him to a tasting on Tuesday.

He looked for dry scrap of paper to copy the address.

She said her husband would love to meet him.

The ferry was nowhere in sight.

His jacket was drenched.

She stood closer.

He was warm despite the weather.

She inquired if he had the sun in his shirt.

He said nothing.

She felt inside his lapels.

He jerked away.

Rain spattered them both.

Somewhere, the ferry’s horn sounded.

She was so sorry.

He didn’t want an apology.

Her husband was too distant.

He wanted her to take the umbrella.

Her husband had two mistresses, she missed human touch, and her eyes were wet.

He said it was the rain.

She felt inside his lapels.

His coattails dripped.

Her lips were dry.

They never felt so good.

The ferry came.

She knew the pilot.

He shied to the back of the boat.

She snatched his scrap and scribbled directions, puncturing the wet paper with haste.

He hesitated.

She rode with the pilot, laughing about spring rain.

He tried to catch her looking at him.

She was practically in the pilot’s lap, so keenly interested in his morning.

He tried not to glare.

She never touched the pilot’s lapels.

He wondered at the paper in his hand.

She glanced once, the sun reflecting in her eyes.

He was free on Tuesday.

Bathroom Monologue: One Vampire Allowed

I mean, I’d like to live with you forever. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, even if you drank my dad, and really, if we live forever, then we can live to the point where humans go to space, and then we don’t have to worry about the sun killing us anymore. That’s pretty much living in a night sky, which you don’t seem allergic to. And I think rolling around with a vampire space-buddy would be bad ass.

But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Dad won’t be the last person who tries to plant a stake in you, and you’re kind of helpless during the day. Rough as shit at night, but not during sun-up. And I don’t know if you know this, but insurance people, and meter readers, and the IRS, and cleaning ladies – they all visit during the day. It’s only luck that a tornado or hurricane or terrorist hasn’t blown up a wall and bathed you in killer sunshine. What if you need to evacuate? We’re going to have to live in this world for a century or something before we can blastoff into space, and buddy, you’re just not equipped. You’re a creature of the night, but also a special needs case.

So I’m thinking, at least for right now, I’m going to stay human. I can finish my Registered Nurse training, and maybe even get paid by the government to take care of your ass. That’d be funny, right? Their tax dollars at work, assisting a predator.

Also, you’re not eating people anymore. At least not in front of me. Dad was a premium asshole, but… yeah, I can’t take many more homicides. Do a blood drive. Or, I’ll do a blood drive, since those are mostly during the day.

See, though? I’ve got to stay flesh-and-blood, not flesh-and-blood-and-blood-and-blood. It’s better for both of us. Just hope that, you know, they figure out robot bodies before I get too old. I really want to see space.

Bathroom Monologue: Unbelievable Girl

God sent her to harass me. Girls that pretty don’t laugh at my jokes. I mean, yes, I could have met a girl who looked like her at the AIDS Quilt. People of every shape, even mine, do that. But girls that pretty do not compliment my eyes. They don’t look at them; even I’d never noticed my freaking eyes before. And without the deliberate and cruel intervention of a divine entity, I couldn’t possibly have run into her later that night at the second-run theater for Cabin in the Woods, or that weekend at Tom Waits. Those things do not triangulate on their own.

The long, stringy hair that keeps getting stuck between my teeth. Jesus, everything about her was designed to mess with me. Every morning I have to come up with some dumb explanation for how that happened, even though I was asleep, and she knows it. Every morning she looks at me, preemptively bemused with the apology to come. Nobody would do that unless God made them to mess with my head.

She never has emergencies; she never needs to go to the hospital in the middle of the night. She never even needs help reaching anything; she reaches things for me. She never misses work, and finds all the good music long before I do. I’ve never introduced her to one band she didn’t nod along to and say, “Oh yeah, them!”

When she needs me, it’s extracurricular. Like she couldn’t balance an account if she wanted. Half the time I think she makes up her fear of driving in the rain so I’ll feel important. I keep glancing at the passenger seat, hoping to catch her with her guard down and not cringing at thunder, and at the same time, I hope I never catch her doing that. Maybe she’s not a trick? It’s a nice thing to believe.

I want to believe in her. That’s the worst part. That someone who’s taller, and smarter, and healthier, and just better than me would actually want me. But I don’t have the faith. God, am I going to kill this relationship by waiting for it to disappear?