Page 229 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

back down the hall,

shaking his head,

saying, “I can’t fuckin’ do this.”

I run after him and drag him out from the hallway, pushing him back into the living room, arms doing the YMCA, hips doing the Electric Chair with haunted eyes.

Honor’s mouth twists as he takes one slow step away from me.

The instruments rush back in.

I turn, crossing the living room in the wide-legged Thriller prowl⁠—

knees bent, arms on my thighs,

head twitching, dead but committed.

Every move says “don’t fuck me.”

Every beat says “please stop.”

I’m almost positive my ass and tits are embarrassed to be attached to me.

I throw the terrace doors open so hard

the glass rattles.

Cold air punches through,

the last lyrics tasting like tears.

I step out onto the fake grass, arms stretched open, the waking city as my stage as an invisible crowd tosses single-stemmed roses.

Wind slaps my cheeks, my hair thrashes into my mouth, and I sing the ending in a long, full-throated wail, the emotion scooped out from the bottom of my lungs.

“SHUT THE FUCK UUUUUP!”

Some pissed-off neighbor yells it from the skyline, thinking he’s the main character.

He’s not. I am.

So I do not shut up.

Each note gets uglier as I opera from a hoarse throat, from my ribcage, from my fucking soul.

I hit the final note,

mourning a husband I never had.

Then collapse.

Flat on my back.

Fake grass cold on my spine.

Lungs wheezing.

Chest heaving.