speaking of lines

on crop circles, and anhedonia

Crapazoids
Calla lily lived in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1999. The apartment practically knifed itself up out of black cement and yellow lines, in Chesterland, Ohio, a green golfer's paradise. The cops and plazas and SUVs were necessary to navigate. Fine linen air and open windows took her down one flight of stairs to talk to a guy who knew her friends and they knew who he was. She took a walk with him but he was just a guy, someone here, and she swears it was winter in the summer time. They didn't walk by the bread shop or the Chinese restaurant or the drug store, but she saw leaves and it was fall. Boy said "nothing's funny any more. Everything funny already happened."
She took a different walk in the infinite possibility of another boy, the one who hung with a speed freak. Their shoes matched their cigarettes, and he asked her to stay over night and she said no, being so far off the city in the clean wet television shimmer. She should have said yes, because she was nervous. She kept that distance of unrepentant death. Spiders reminded her of her grandmother, gone. She sensed home, steered left, ate subs.