Thirty Nine

Thinking about the second side of her experiment, the inside of my stomach started to itch. I looked, unfocused, at a spot to the right of me and then my top lip curled into a crescent, waiting. I'll make you with pulp slurry, Jon, I will compose you. I will drink your nervous twitches while you stare ahead unmoving, I'll watch your lanky body eat hunched over, apologetic, and I will wait.