#173:
roustabout

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I lowered the flaming baton to my mouth, watched the fire-eater pantomime the move from the corner of my eye-- his head bent back just so, his mouth opened yay wide. His lips are scorched by small black burnt patches. I imagined them my own, touching them with my tongue; imagined feeling and tasting cracked skin gone slick and sharp like a battery charge, prosumer-grade alcohol from the spitting gag my carny perfume. I see his lips and the baton wavers in my hand. I can’t do it, and nobody was around to see me do it, so fuck it.