I would call her Taylor, because black hairs draw toward the curve of her lips and edge into the miles between us – But instead I curtail a whimsy, freak out the neighbors by dressing my cat in an armor of arrows, go outside, into the suburbs, dressed in my fag dreams, and search for purple, learning the arithmetic of streets my art teachers taught me – and curving down the avenue of Toasters, big loaves of bread slide up from inside, all around us –
Meeshka wants some of the toast and jumps up and down, clanging the arrows stop motion. Odd for a cat –
“No Jumping!” Med.z Tony says.
I pull open my switchblade and dust off my shoulder.