By Cassandra Moss
So. And it was the way he stood behind her, unpressed, that meant contact was imminent because he looked at her like her mind was invisible, which it was, and she stumbled, her vodka slapping the floor, his hand went to her arm and they, she guesses, moved away and drew closer and really the solid curve of his chest overpowered the solipsism of her days of removal, her voyages to abstraction when she’s an inner imprisoned in an outer imposter that gets mistaken for her, but in the club there was no horror, horror that usually lives in secretions felt on her brain and ministrations inhaled through her eyes, but no as they are now in his room, starlight slathered over black with the moon watching her through the skylight, watching him and her, ogling them together and this, she thinks, is the business of living as she is undoing her buttons, guided by universal direction, a one way, a summoning, cosmic force pushing her towards, splits torn together. Of course, it’s hardly always like this, she hears herself intone in her mother’s voice. But, she thinks, it sure is hard being a dualist when your glands are gaining prominence.
Cassandra Moss was born in Manchester, England. She moved to London to study and subsequently worked in the film and ELT industries. She now lives and writes by the Irish Sea. Her writing has appeared in numerous journals, including 3 am Magazine, Squawk Back, Posit, Sunspot Lit, KAIROS, The Bangalore Review, The Closed Eye Open, and is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys.