Take a Picture

5 2 0

When we arrive
at the GPS coordinates
of Orange Man's Los Angeles
property, we turn the car off
in front of an old warehouse
with violet and blue graffiti,
cracked, shattered windows,
and a thick iron chain
around the handles
of the double front doors
clamped with a padlock.

As we head to the trunk
to retrieve the thumb-gloves,
Buttercup asks Hooman #A,
"Take my picture?"
then she faces towards
the abandoned warehouse
posing with a serious face.

Phoebe jumps up
on the bumper of the car
rubbing her sleek rosettes
along my stomach.

I'm careful lowering
the finger-gloves to gravel
then closing the trunk
without knocking her off.

Hooman #A takes a pic,
but Buttercup's not satisfied;

she says,
"It's dark!
Use the flash!"

"Oops," Hooman #A replies.
"Let me find it..."

Then he photographs
her again, this time
in a bath of artificial light,

and the flash,
on hitting her eyes,
ignites into lasers
that shoot across
the parking lot, slicing
the roof off a 90s hatchback
before zooming into
the padlock, searing it open.

As Buttercup and Phoebe
stroll towards the warehouse
with their tails pointed
high in the air,

I walk up to Hooman #A,
rubbing shoulders with him,
a gravelly finger-glove
held gingerly in each hand,
asking, "You all right?"

He blinks several times.
"Has she always had
Death-Star-style laser eyes?"

"First time I've seen it, too,"
I reply, "but yeah; probably."


First draft: September 18

Word count: 249

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