I saw a woman with no arms, no legs, and no hair, he says, barely even had a face. She drinks in breaths of air, cools her fevered temples with a tepid rag, listening. It was something, he says. She was at the gas station with a kid, maybe twelve years old, who was pulling her around on a little red wagon. He bought her cigarettes, he says. The clerk, I guess, didn’t know what to do, so he sold this little kid a pack of cigarettes. Laughter. Speaking of which, she says, and she makes a motion with her hand. He slides a fresh pack her way through the crumbs on the table. Anyways, he says, you would’ve had to’ve been there. She lights a cigarette and imagines the street below her. Twelve stories down. Traffic bends to the form of the river. There is snow quilted over the sand. She reaches over to touch his face, feels a waft of cold air, and wonders if he is still there beside her. Please, she says, closing her blind eyes to the darkness. What do I look like? She waits and waits. Then she gets her response in the form of violence, a lover’s quarrel. She bangs on the wall, tells her neighbors to keep it down or she’ll call the cops. Let it rain, she says. Get a boat for the torso
Troy James Weaver lives in Wichita, Kansas. His work has been published widely online and in print. He is the author of four books, the newest of which being published in March by Disorder Press.