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Avenue C
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An Open Book
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Miranda Blue

Kyle Hemmings

    Girls in blue heat should never vogue near fire hydrants, the colors never mix, but Miranda was always a slap and a spit to those Butthead dictums. On the dance floor we put Madonna to shame. Before a mirror that‘s longer than my idea of California, I see myself in new angles, unhinged, lines crossing or bifurcating. I’m a bluff on a dime. Unofficially, we are the club’s featured dancers and are hotter than some backroom clergy in Jersey. I’m nursing my fourteenth rum and coke, light on the liquor but heavy on Sweet Street. While Miranda is still spinning past an ecstatic ocean of faces, tricked into some eternity of smoke and fog, I try to recruit whatever parts of my lungs can still aerate. Outside, we’re under a blue yawn of sky, night tossing day. Pitching her stilettos towards the tailpipe of a taxi, Miranda becomes Mike and I become my proper double with false lips. She still has the best legs this side of a cruiser’s paradise. Be careful, I tell her, this city is scurvy with the edges and open islets of glass. “Too bad, you won’t fuck me,” she says, doing a runway in front of me, the exaggerated lift of the hips. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” I remind her that even though we grew up on the same downtown tree, we clung to proximal but different branches. We part ways at the subway, performing a rerun and a half of a French kiss that would make the French blush. The way they kiss in old war movies, ships into port and sailor caps in the wind, when someone returned with the most important parts intact. Back home, I collapse on the old futon, my mother out, making sales pitches door to door with women with engraved smiles and pureed voices. She covers most of Bergen County and is edging towards Passaic. I’m almost sober by the time I reach a dream, the part that must overlap with Miranda’s. We’re sitting at the living room table, munching on rye toast, no seeds, orange marmalade, or blueberry jam fresh as morning sex. Below us, a crusade of ants dance over our feet, scurries up our legs. And in this dream, where every creature is either storing energy or too stoked to consume more, I tell Miranda that I want to be in a twenty-four club with windows that never shut properly and exit signs that only glow in the phosphene of your acid morning brain.



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