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The Girl Who Loved Watari

Kyle Hemmings

    He was blind in some ways, prone to early morning fogs, susceptible to classic Trance and lock-down cyborg thought. Still, she loved rolling in his honey under the sheets, those times when he forgot he was made of cold metal—stuck him with all kinds of tweets about love. She knew it was one way. He hinted at how he was ruined by machines disguised as mothers and older sisters, that he couldn’t get too close—he would only self-destruct. She tattooed a rabbit on his naked arm. He was muttering something about the fall of Tokyo and how he would be one more useless body of cogs and flat-headed screws under a heap of shorn instructions. She said she believed in rabbits and so should he. Sauntering to the closet, her body, a warm glow of gooseflesh in early sunlight, she said rabbits were a catalyst to forever. With schizoid glare, as if speaking to not-her, he stated that it was because they hide underground. She inspected his face as if searching for signs of her own life. She couldn’t understand why she loved him, only that as a child, she slept with broken dolls, her lips pressed against their hard blue eyes.

     He disappeared.

    Months later, after the earthquake, she nurses a drink at the Vanity Lounge in Roppongi on Halloween night, talking to a girlfriend dressed as a furry animal, one with big warm eyes. She says a rabbit has died. The girlfriend’s sticky fingers smell of apples. The girl without rabbit ears still wants honey.



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