We dressed as vampires and witches, superheroes and villains, athletes and models. We covered our faces and uncovered our bodies. The spiked punch tasted like Hi-C and the weed was grown by the government. We met and mingled in the basement and pissed off the patio. Without a word we could take each other by the hand and head to a spare bedroom, shut the door, and fuck until the punch knocked us out.
On our way home we get lost in the countryside. The fields are empty and cold and go on forever. Eventually we give up and turn off the car and fall asleep, holding on to each other, shivering and sick.
If we wake up, we’ll do it all differently, take off our costumes and hold each other as we are. We’ll find more creative ways to display our affection (to say I love you). We won’t need to speak. We’ll share warmth and food. Our touch we’ll treasure. Our presence permanent. Our faces uncovered, in focus, and smiling.
Kyle Brown writes fiction, poetry, and metaphysical rock music. He graduated from Purdue University with a BA in English. His work has appeared in Midwestern Gothic, Dark Matter, Word Riot, Spork Press, and elsewhere.